In Memoriam
by JustaPegacorn
Summary: Waylon Park and his fiancee, Lisa, pissed off the wrong tailor. After a random accident wipes Waylon's memory clean, Eddie sees his opportunity to get revenge, and some free labor, out of the man who attempted to ruin his business. But the man he tricks resembles the man from his shop in face only, and Eddie begins to question his impulsive decision.
1. Chapter 1: Unforgettable Encounter

**Chapter 1: An Unforgettable Encounter**

Eddie's face was a mask of congeniality—but his eyes were alight with the desire to murder.

"I can assure you, madam, I have the documentation on hand. This is the exact shade of coral that you ordered. The material has already been paid, in full, and the dresses are ready for fitting. I'm afraid I cannot offer you any kind of refund," said Eddie Gluskin. He stood behind the counter of _Gluskin's Bridal_ wearing his usual uniform of nice slacks with a matching vest and bow-tie over a white dress shirt. The stripe of hair on top of his head was slicked back without a single strand misplaced, and the sides shaved short. The fake smile plastered on his face was growing uncomfortable.

"You're wrong. The documentation is wrong," said Lisa, bride-to-be of the day who was making Eddie's life a living hell. Her brown hair was combed into a complicated hairstyle, and she wore a beautifully tailored cream skirt and jacket over a petal pink blouse. "The color you used is hideous. Coral is last season. I _never_ would have picked such an orange shade. I'm not doing a beach wedding, for Christ's sake—we're going to be on the mountain side. This is all terribly unacceptable. _Waaaaaaay_ ," the last part came out as a long whine directed at the blond man standing nearby. Eddie guessed Lisa had dressed them both, considering her fiance's pink collared shirt and cream colored slacks that matched hers perfectly.

Waylon's brown eyes suddenly reined in from whatever spot they were studying on the ceiling. His eyebrows shot up in confusion. "Are you even listening?" demanded Lisa. "This is important! This wedding is going to be attended by every manager and executive officer at Murkoff. A tacky wedding reflects poorly on you. That could affect your future prospects at the company."

"I highly doubt that," said Waylon giving a snorting laugh. "Be reasonable. I designed their latest in-house software, they can't really function without me until I can train the others how to use the interface. I doubt they would fire me because of coral bridesmaid dresses…"

"This is so typical of you," said Lisa, turning her chin up and pouting. Soon, Lisa's bottom lip was quivering and her eyes shone with unshed tears. Eddie could not stop the automatic narrowing of his eyes at the disgusting display. What type of spineless man would give into such obviously manipulative behavior? The pouting only seemed to confuse Waylon further.

Lisa grabbed Waylon by the elbow and pulled him away from the counter. She spoke in hissing whispers that were still audible to Eddie. "Is this how it's going to be, Waylon? You'll always let everyone walk all over you? We've _talked_ about this."

Waylon Park gave a resigned sigh. He pulled his shoulders back, and walked purposely up to the counter. He was inches shorter than Eddie. He had to gaze up to meet Eddie's predatory blue eyes. "There has been a mistake," said Waylon. "My fiancee and I will not be paying anything for these dresses. It was _your_ fault for completing the dresses out of this material without first showing it to me, or my fiancee, for approval. I expect you will want to order a different fabric color, and re-make these dresses in order to keep your sizable commission we agreed upon for the job. We will not pay a cent until Lisa is completely, one-hundred-percent, satisfied."

"Mr. Park. Is this your signature?" asked Eddie, calmly pressing a printed page down on the counter and sliding it toward Waylon.

"I don't care what kind of contact you think you have. I have access to the best lawyers in Colorado. I work for Murkoff, heard of them?" Waylon narrowed his brown eyes. He may have been shorter than Eddie, but he was able to pull rank with the best of them. "You wouldn't get a cent, and the court fees would bankrupt this business. Now. Are we going to be able to fix this problem, or should my fiancee and I find another tailor?"

"You will not find another dress maker of my quality in this state," said Eddie, his voice still calm despite the intense glare in his eyes.

"Then we'll go out of state. We can afford the best. Clearly, this is not it. Sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Gluskin," said Waylon. He lifted his chin and walked over to Lisa, chatting away on her phone. "Come on, we're leaving."

"Wait, don't I have to pick new color swatches, or something?" asked Lisa. Her blue eyes were wide with disbelief, as if it was impossible for her to imagine a scenario where she did not get exactly _what_ she wanted, _when_ she wanted it.

"No," said Waylon, making sure his voice was louder than necessary for Eddie's benefit. "We will need to let all of our friends and colleagues know that _Gluskin's Bridal_ is unprofessional, and not at all what was advertised. I'll get us tickets to New York for next weekend, and buy you any dresses your heart desires." Lisa clapped her hands girlishly before putting the phone back up to her ear and exiting the shop.

Waylon turned to follow her, but he was stopped short by a firm grip around his arm. "You signed an agreement. Even if you do not want these garments, I expect to be reimbursed for my costs," said Eddie. Waylon stared in horror at his arm where Eddie's hand was clamped harder enough to bruise.

"You can't touch me! I'll have you arrested for assault," said Waylon, panic infiltrating his tone.

"And I will point out to the police how you have gone against your agreement, and are attempting to short me on a ten thousand dollar contract," said Eddie, his voice deadly and low. "This is my livelihood. I turned down several other seizable contracts in order to devote time to this job. I am owed for those missed costs, as well as the material reimbursement."

"The hell you are," said Waylon with a sneer. He attempted to pull his arm free, but Eddie did not budge in the least. The grip was iron clad, and Waylon began to struggle visibly. "Let me go, asshole! Everyone's going to know about this. You think you have trouble now? Wait until everyone in the area that can afford your prices finds out you assaulted me, and tried to force me to buy inferior goods!"

Eddie released Waylon's arm so suddenly that Waylon was thrown backwards, stumbling into a mannequin wearing an ornate, ivory gown. The collision caused a rhinestone encrusted tiara on the mannequin's head to clatter to the ground. Several stones flew off in every direction. Eddie's face immediately fell as he realized the expensive mistake. Waylon straightened his stance, giving a loud _hmph_. "Serves you right for assaulting me. Good luck with your business, Mr. Gluskin. You're going to need it."

Waylon turned and walked out of the shop, the soft _ding_ of a bell signaling the closure of the door behind him.

"Fine! Go! All of you, _**whores**_ ," the loud screams were muffled by the closed door, but Eddie could see through the window how Waylon paused and then rushed toward his white Mercedes. He glanced back and Eddie made sure he got a look at his murderous face. Waylon gave the smallest smirk before getting into his car.

The car drove out of sight, leaving a seething Eddie behind in his shop. He mumbled to himself in anger as he stared at the eight coral gowns. They were all custom designed and sewn. He had sewn them, personally. "The nerve of these… _people_ ," he muttered as he retrieved the fallen tiara. He counted the missing rhinestones and sighed. "I'm adding that five hundred dollars onto their bill, as well." It was futile, he knew, considering they had already refused to pay. Even if he attempted to find a cheap lawyer, the legal fees would likely consume the majority of any settlement he might potentially receive. Eddie sighed and closed up his shop for the evening.

 _Gluskin's Bridal_ was located in Leadville, Eddie's home since childhood. Thanks to the hard work of his mother, the shop held a reputation that drew in people from all over the state to the small, mountain town. Eddie had no desire to leave the area, and hoped he would never have to make that decision. The mountain air held a type of healing property.

Eddie drove his old, blue Ford into the most popular barbecue restaurant in town. The entire building was made of wood with faded signs and some neon beer advertisements illuminating the entrance. It was not a fancy place, but the locals enjoyed it. Inside, the walls were plastered with every type of road sign imaginable and the tables sported red-and-white checkered tablecloths. He walked over to join his two friends at their usual table.

"Rough day at the shop, Ed?" asked Frank Manera, easily managing to sense his friend's irritation.

"Aren't you supposed to be manning the grill tonight?" asked Eddie, calmly pulling out a chair and taking a seat directly between the two men. Frank was wearing his red shirt sporting the Rib Shack logo beneath a full coverage apron. The apron was smeared with so much red barbecue sauce someone might have guessed Frank was a butcher, rather than a line chef. Frank had long hair, and a long beard—and he was required to wear a hairnet on both when he was working.

"I'm on break," said Frank, leaning back in the cheap plastic chair, getting comfortable.

"You're always on break," said Dennis, typing away on a cellphone without glancing up at Eddie's arrival. He was wearing his usual stained t-shirt over jeans look. No one was sure what Dennis did for a living, but he always had cash, and he had a reputation as a guy who could get things. He was a man of many talents.

"Yeah, well, like, you're always on break too," said Frank. Eddie rolled his eyes.

"Good comeback," said Eddie before leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table.

"Shit," said Frank, leaning forward with renewed interest. "Ed's table manners have slipped. Must have been a hell of a day."

"Asshole customers, stiffing me on my biggest commission all year," said Eddie, staring daggers at the table as though it were somehow responsible. "I have lost commissions because I was too busy to accept them, I paid for the materials, and I spent countless hours performing the work myself. Today the…the degenerate _whore_ shows up with her spineless, _bitch_ fiance, and says she doesn't like the color, and they won't pay. I showed them the contract…bitch boy has the nerve to tell me they won't' pay a cent. Threatens litigation if I go against them, knowing full well I can't afford those kind of legal bills. Oh, and on the way out, they knocked over my favorite tiara…"

"Awww, see, now that's the worst part, wasn't it?" asked Dennis, putting a heavy hand on Eddie's shoulder. "Sorry 'bout your crown, bro." Frank snickered but attempted to keep it hidden from Eddie who turned icy blue eyes on his friends and practically growled.

"What I wouldn't do to get some revenge on those pompous…rich…entitled…" Eddie trailed off, frowning down at his hands.

"So they're gone, now what?" asked Dennis, finally putting his phone away to stare at Eddie. Dennis had a shaved head and low brow, giving him a rather formidable look. He was wearing a thin collared shirt with his name embroidered over the pocket and a pair of dirty jeans.

"Rent is paid up for three months. I suppose I will be having a sale on coral bridesmaid dresses, and trying to sell the tiara at a discount," said Eddie.

"Coral? Wait, you made a dress out of coral?" asked Frank, scratching his head.

"It's a color, you uncultured ass," said Dennis, before giving a sidelong glance at Eddie. "Right?"

"You're both hopeless," said Eddie, standing up from the table without having ordered anything. "I'm going home."

"Yoohoo! Eddie," came a singsong woman's voice from behind the counter of the restaurant.

"Good evening, Pamela," said Eddie, straightening his vest and standing taller as he addressed the owner of the Rib Shack.

"You always manage to class up the joint just by walking in, lookin' so dashing. How is it a man like you is single?" asked Pamela. She paused refilling a bowl of peanuts to sigh dreamily while staring at Eddie. Pamela was a large figured woman in her forties with hair dyed orange, though probably in an attempt to look red. Her makeup was always flawless. "Frank, get your scrawny ass back in the kitchen."

"It's my break, Pammy," said Frank, though he was already standing up with a kicked-puppy expression on his face.

"I keep telling you—there aren't any breaks! You only work part-time!" said Pamela, glaring at Frank as he walked behind the counter, adjusting his apron. "Lucky you have such handsome friends, or I might run your ass out of here. Now put on your hairnets!"

"Okay, alright, sheesh," said Frank, disappearing into the kitchen area.

"Goodbye, Frank," called Eddie before clapping Dennis on the shoulder. "Be seeing you."

"Take it easy, old man," said Dennis, already absorbed with his cellphone again.

* * *

"Would you not go so fast? These aren't exactly hiking boots," said Lisa, maneuvering carefully up the walking path wearing designer flats to match her dress suit. She was in good physical condition, her yoga instructor and personal trainers could attest to that, but she absolutely refused to wear anything sensible. Waylon sighed as he held out his hand, helping his bride-to-be ascend the slope.

Once they reached the top where the small white gazebo was located, Waylon spread his arms and spun around. "Tada."

"Hmm. It's a view, sure, but there's views like this all over Colorado," said Lisa. "I don't want to get married in Leadville. This place is disgusting."

"You agree to this months ago, I already booked the place. Remember? We chose it because it was scenic and logical considering its proximity to the bridal shop. I already reserved a block of rooms at the Hampton Inn for a very sensible price," said Waylon.

"I hate it. I changed my mind," said Lisa, frowning as she held her hand up over her eyes to shield them from the last evening sunlight.

"No," said Waylon, turning to face her. "I'm sorry. I stood up to that poor tailor today for you, just because you didn't like the dress color, after you chose it— _personally_ —months ago. I'm not going to cancel this place. I think it's perfect, and the deposit was nonrefundable. Please, be reasonable."

"Oh, please, like you can't afford it," said Lisa, tossing her well coiffed hair. "Murkoff's Golden Boy, they pay you whatever you ask. What better way to put all that excess salary to use than spending it on **the** wedding of the year? Oh, I can't wait! All of the higher ups will be there. It's going to be extravagant. We should look into a location in Denver, wouldn't that be better? I should tour all of the best locations. I'm sure Jeremy wouldn't mind, he knows every hot spot in Denver."

"Yeah, Jeremy, swell guy," said Waylon, rolling his eyes. "Why is he doing so much for this wedding, anyways? At work, I get the feeling he can barely tolerate my presence, yet he's been involved with every step of planning my wedding?"

"He's the CEO, babe, he can be as involved as he wants to be," said Lisa. She put her hands on her hips and stared out across the view of rolling, green foothills, sparkling creeks, and spots of thick trees. "I'm sorry, Waylon. I can't imagine hiking up here in a wedding dress just to say our vows."

"They have golf carts available?"

"A golf cart? Now you're joking, and it's not funny," said Lisa. "I am going to walk back down now, and pretend you never said the words 'golf cart' to me. I consider this matter settled."

"This is my wedding too, you know," said Waylon, daring to look up and meet Lisa's blue eyes.

"Excuse me? The wedding is all about the bride…" said Lisa.

"Yeah, but I am paying for it, and hiking is important to me—it's my favorite hobby, and I would like at least some _small_ say in what happens at my **own** wedding."

Lisa walked over and put her hands on either side of Waylon's face, squeezing as she scrunched up her nose. "You're adorable when you try to be assertive." She kissed him lightly on the nose. "We'll keep this place as a maybe." Waylon started to retort, but Lisa held up her hand and took a step away, retrieving her cell phone from her tiny, designer clutch which could likely only fit that one, single phone-and one of Waylon's credit cards, of course.

"Hello? Oooh, I left you so many messages! You are never going to believe the drama," said Lisa, absorbed in her phone call. "The dresses were wretched and Way told the tailor to throw them right out, and refused to pay. Now the site is a maybe because it's far too inaccessible, and dangerous! What if it rains? Will I be expected to get married in some barn? Can you imagine? The Board of Directors of Murkoff Incorporated sitting in a barn…"

"Who is it?" Waylon asked, tapping his foot in annoyance.

"Jeremy," mouthed Lisa, causing Waylon to scoff out loud.

"Why is he calling so much?" asked Waylon.

"He has a lot of input on this wedding! He's your best man," said Lisa.

"Miles is my best man, you know that, and there is no _fucking_ way I am making Jeremy Blaire my best man…"

"Just a sec," Lisa said into the phone before covering the microphone with her hand and glaring at Waylon. "Are you serious right now, Waylon? I'm going back to Denver—immediately. There's too much to do. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like." Lisa turned and started walking down the hill before resuming her phone conversation. "Sorry, Waylon's throwing a fit about the location all because of some silly nonrefundable deposit…I know, that's what I told him…I'm on my way back to Denver now…I'm taking the Mercedes, can you send a company car for Waylon? Oh, That would just be wonderful…"

As Waylon watched Lisa drive away in his car, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his cream colored slacks that Lisa had picked out for him to wear. He walked to where the gazebo was perched on the edge of a steep hill.

The view was amazing. Mount Massive rose in the distance, majestic and tall, surrounded by grassy hills and spattered copses of trees. It was idyllic. Exactly the type of place Waylon had imagined himself getting married when had gotten down on one knee in front of his college sweetheart. Of course, she had refused him the first two times. But, after he received his promotion, and a considerable raise, she had agreed to the marriage.

Waylon knew he should feel happy to be getting married, but the situation had only added to so much stress in his life. He barely had time to see Lisa anymore with all of her lunches with wedding planners and florists, plus driving to Leadville just to fire their tailor. Waylon sighed as he leaned against the post of the gazebo. Some nights, Lisa did not even come home, claiming to have drunk too much champagne or eaten too many wedding cake samples.

Waylon was distracted by the vibration of his own phone in his pocket as he stood watching Lisa drive away in his white Mercedes. "You're late," he said into the receiver.

"I know," said Miles, giving an exaggerated sigh for emphasis. "I couldn't get away. The interview just kept dragging on and on. I'm really sorry. I can head there now, if you still need me?"

"Don't bother. Lisa fired the tailor, and now she doesn't want to get married outside the museum either," said Waylon, attempting to pull the phone away so Miles would not hear his sigh.

"You're serious? I thought you loved that spot?"

"I did—I do, really. I'm there, now. But I guess Lisa isn't going to want to hike anywhere in her wedding gown."

"They have golf carts?"

"Yeah, I told her that. She nixed that idea right off. I don't know what to do anymore," said Waylon, staring off at the mountains.

"I know you're tired of hearing it, but are you sure this marriage is what you want?" asked Miles.

"Come on, you're my best man," said Waylon. "You're not supposed to spend so much time trying to talk me out of my own wedding…"

"I'm your best man because I'm your best _friend_. I want what's best for you. I know you and Lisa have been together since college, but you can't deny that she's changed, right? I think the 'Murkoff Wives Club' has had a terrible influence on her. You guys never just travel for fun anymore, if it's not first class and a five star resort, she's not interested. You need to protect yourself…"

"Protect myself, from the woman I love?" asked Waylon. "I wouldn't have even gotten this job if it weren't for her. She's entitled to half of what I earned, _she_ helped me earn it. She can't be a gold-digger when she was here from the very beginning. She's stuck by me through a lot…"

"I know. I have, too, remember?" asked Miles. "I'd like to see Lisa carry you across the country following a band or hiking over a hundred miles just to see some remote peak…"

"Be reasonable," said Waylon, though he was grinning. "That's why I have both of you in my life. You're both important to me."

"I just worry. You haven't been yourself lately. I'm _worried_ about you," said Miles.

"I'm worried about me, too. Work is just…" Waylon made a disgusted noise into the phone. "It's tough, and the wedding is stressful. But, it'll get better."

"You really believe that?" asked Miles.

"Once the new software goes live, and the worst of the initial bugs are worked out, I can focus entirely on the wedding, and make sure that Lisa is completely happy. It's stressful right now, but I'm not giving up. I'm not running away from this. I've run away too often in the past. Now, I am meeting my problems, head on," said Waylon.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting another call. Sorry I missed the location tour and the tailor appointment, but I'll be here for the next thing. What is it, some kind of…"

"We're interviewing several potential cover bands for the reception…"

"DMB!"

"I already tried. Lisa's exact words were 'fuck no.' But maybe something similar," said Waylon, grinning despite himself.

"I'm away for a month for a story, but once I get back, I am going to make sure I'm there for the next appointment. Sorry again. Talk soon."

 _Beep_.

Waylon sighed, alone again with his thoughts. He knew Miles was worried about his marriage to Lisa, but Waylon believed everything would be better once the wedding was over. Then, he and Lisa could settle down as a married couple.

They would go on their honeymoon to the Patagonian Andes, and spend their time hiking in the day, and making love all night. Viewing the Carres de Paine, in person, was on Waylon's bucket list. He knew Lisa would love it, once they got there. A vacation would definitely help with the stress at work, as well.

The new software system was scheduled for implementation, and Waylon knew there were several employees gunning for his position. He may not be as charming as Raul, or as self-assured as Kurt, but Waylon beat them all on knowledge of the program. He felt confident his job was secure. He just needed to get past the initial launch phase with most of his sanity.

Yes, everything in Waylon's life was going exactly the way he wanted it. He walked around the gazebo, enjoying the view offered by the nearby steep drop. Waylon put his hand against one of the posts and leaned forward, curious to see exactly how big of a drop-off was below. There was a sharp snap before Waylon found out exactly how far the drop was. He sailed through the air, and landed in a thicket of brush with a heavy thud.

* * *

Eddie drove the short distance to his house. To call his residence run down was too kind. The walls were uneven, the roof ready to cave at any second, and all of the windows were so covered with dirt and dust one might assume it was done on purpose to block prying eyes. Not that anyone would want to pry into Eddie's hovel. The lawn was mostly dirt with patches of weeds, and a wide array of antique sewing equipment left outside to rust. An unused clutter of gardening equipment lay next to several flower beds that were nothing but mud.

Before Eddie could open the door, he was assaulted by three very friendly, and very large, Doberman Pinschers. "Darlings! Darlings, behave," said Eddie as he carefully pet each one. He squeezed their heads affectionately between both hands before opening the door and following the dogs inside.

Eddie maneuvered his way through the interior. It required some dexterity because his home was full of wall to wall boxes full of antiques and treasures. The boxes had begun piling up years ago, and eventually entire portions of the house were inaccessible. The kitchen, part of the living room, and Eddie's bed were the only usable spaces in the entire three bedroom house.

The first thing Eddie did upon arriving at his home was to remove his fine clothes and set them aside in his bedroom. Between the dogs and the clutter, it was difficult to keep his finer clothes clean if he wore them around the house. Once he was dressed in comfortable plaid pajama pants and a white tank, he could relax in his one usable chair in the living room. He clicked on the television and the local news popped onto the screen.

A fuzzy picture came into view and Eddie stared hard at the screen, his blue eyes going wide with wonder as the gears in his brain began working overtime. He reached for the phone sitting next to his chair and immediately punched in a familiar number. "Hey. I need to call in a big favor. Seems I actually need something you may be able to get…"

* * *

A/N: This story is inspired/loosely based on the movie "Overboard." I saw an Overboard AU in someone's bookmarks and immediately ran off to write this story. This is quite possibly the fluffiest thing I have ever written since no one dies and none of the variants are crazy. This is also a completely new writing style with all the scene breaks, and even changes in POV, so I apologize if it seems clumsy at times, I have to try new things to continue to grow :-/ Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't, let me know!


	2. Chapter 2: Rewriting History

Chapter 2: Rewriting History

"Now, I do apologize, but this is case is completely unique for us here at Leadville Regional," said the doctor. " It's quite the anomaly! I dare say it is even a little exciting to witness such a uncommon medical phenomenon. He was found by a good Samaritan with no personal identification on his person-no wallet, no cell phone. We've only been able to call him 'John Doe,' but now, we can call him by his real name."

Dr. Greene was an elderly man, probably nearing retirement age, with a pristine white jacket and a wispy comb-over. "We do have just a few formalities before we can release him to your care, of course, Mister…"

"Gluskin. Eddie Gluskin. You have no idea how utterly relieved I am to hear that someone found my darling husband," said Eddie, sitting in a chair opposite the doctor's desk. There was a third person present in the corner, though she had not been formally introduced to Eddie. She was a young woman with a messy bun and a badge that named her Marie, from the Medical Records Department.

"Now, can we just see what, um, proof, you have brought with you, hmm?" asked Dr. Greene.

"Of course," said Eddie, putting on his most cordial smile while sliding a file folder across the desk to the doctor. Dr. Greene opened the front flap and stared down at the small stack of documents.

"Hmm. This really is not a lot of documents," said Dr. Greene.

"I'm awfully sorry, I did not think I would need much to prove his identity. He only needs to see me, and I know it will all come flooding back to him as soon as we are reunited," said Eddie.

"Of course, Mr. Gluskin," said Dr. Greene, holding up a driver's license found in the file. He hummed as he examined the license and held it up to the light, checking for authenticity. Marie sat forward and reached for the card. She weighed it in her hand, squinting at the plastic card. She pulled out a small tablet, typed in the numbers, and took a screenshot of the license. Neither seemed to realize that the picture only vaguely resembled Waylon.

"It checks out," said Marie, settling back into her seat.

"Ah, alright, well, a driver's license…so his name is actually…Wayde Gluskin?"

"That's right. He's my husband," said Eddie, his charming smile never waning. "You'll see that the other document is…"

"Ah, a wedding certificate, I see here…just married last year…"

"We were together much longer, but there were some legal issues," said Eddie.

"Ah, sorry to hear that, Mr. Gluskin. I have always been a supporter of marriage equality," said Dr. Greene.

"I'm happy to hear that," said Eddie, holding eye contact with the doctor considerably longer than necessary to prove his sincerity.

"And, uh, this is…"

"His loyalty card at the Rib Shack down the road from our house…"

"Mmm, I don't know a soul in Leadville who doesn't love the Rib Shack," said Dr. Greene.

"…and his certificate of completion of his night pottery course at the local rec center last semester," said Eddie, smiling as he gestured toward the documents.

Dr. Greene hummed, staring at the small stack of documentation. He glanced at Marie who met his gaze and gave the smallest shrug as she frowned. "Why don't you just follow me, and we can get you two reintroduced. You just need to be aware: your husband has experienced total amnesia. He does not remember where, or how, he injured himself, but based on his sprained ankle and other bruises, I would guess he fell from a considerable height. All of the other scrapes and bumps are superficial, and already healing, but his memory loss persists…"

"Let me get a look at him. I guarantee you, he will remember my face," said Eddie, giving his brightest smile. Dr. Greene led Eddie down the hospital hallway and around a corner until he stopped to knock on a door. The name on the medical chart read "Doe."

Once they were inside, Eddie was surprised to see the gentleman from the wedding shop, Waylon Park, sitting on the bed. His face was swollen and wrapped with a white bandage. Eddie could still recognize him as the selfish asshole from the previous day, but he understood why the other hospital staff could not differentiate between the license picture and the real patient.

"Greetings, Mr. Doe! Or should I say, Mr. Gluskin," said Dr. Greene, walking into the room with Eddie in tow. "I have some wonderful news. This man is here to take you back to your home. Do you recognize him?"

The doctor paused as Waylon stared blankly back and forth between Eddie and the doctor without comment. "Well, this is your husband, Eddie Gluskin. Your name is Wayde Gluskin." Waylon's entire face was lined with confusion as his eyes widened and he stared at the doctor and Eddie.

"No, there's some mistake, I don't know this man…"

"Darling!" exclaimed Eddie, purposely choosing to use his nickname for his dogs to further degrade the rude man. "Come now. How could you forget your husband? We've been partners for years. Try to think back, darling, I know you will remember," said Eddie. It was easy to smile down at the injured man, though he struggled to keep his smile looking sincere rather than smug.

"Doctor, I don't know this man…"

"Now, Mr. Gluskin," said Dr. Greene, "it may seem that you do not know this man, but he has produced your driver's license and wedding certificate. Are you sure you do not remember anything about that day, or this man?"

"Eddie," he supplied, gazing down at the wounded man as though he were the love of his life. "Your devoted husband."

"Nope. I have no idea who that guy is. I'm not leaving with this man," said Waylon.

"Mr. Gluskin, your case is an anomaly," said Dr. Greene. "My staff has never had to treat someone with such a severe case of amnesia. There is a chance that your memory will return. It may be soon, or it may take a while."

"How long is a while?" asked Waylon, his fingers clutching the hospital sheets until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm afraid I do not know the answer to that, Mr. Gluskin. But I can tell you that being in your home, surrounded by your family, your husband, and your friends…this is likely the best way to regain the memories you lost."

"But I feel very, very sure that I do not know this man…"

"Darling," said Eddie, approaching the bed and kneeling down. Waylon recoiled in horror from the closeness. Eddie gave a sad smile and met Waylon's eyes. "Look into my eyes. Surely, you remember something?"

Eddie searched Waylon's brown eyes, trying to determine if there was even a shred of recognition there. He could not imagine that Waylon would continue to fake an injury if he was being claimed by the man who had threatened him just the day before. Waylon looked at the doctor, his eyes begging for help. When he turned back to look at Eddie, his eyes were more critical and less confused.

"I…I don't know. Maybe. And that name. Wayde Gluskin? That doesn't sound familiar at all. There's no way that could be my name, right?"

"The documentation says that your name is Wayde Gluskin," said Dr. Greene.

"Everyone calls you Way," said Eddie, and Waylon's head immediately snapped up. He stared at Eddie, his whites visible around his irises.

"Way…that…that actually sounds…familiar. It seems…right?"

"There! Already making progress," said Dr. Greene. "Just imagine what other memories will return once you're at home, surrounded by your loved ones." The doctor smiled down at Waylon and Eddie.

"Come, darling, we have to get you out of this place and back home, where you belong," said Eddie, unable to stop the self-satisfied grin on his face. Everything had gone smoother than he could have possibly imagined.

—

It took a considerable amount of time to clear Waylon for check-out. Eddie waited patiently and received instructions from the doctors on how to care for Waylon's condition, physical and mental. He stood up and put on an adoring gaze when Waylon finally walked into the waiting room. Waylon looked around as though afraid a movie monster would jump out at any moment. He wore a set of green surgeon's scrubs that were much too large for his body.

"My clothes were ruined. I had to borrow these," said Waylon, his voice flat and lifeless.

"Oh, that's fine, darling," said Eddie. "All of your clothing is at the house. You'll feel much more like yourself in the morning, I'm sure of it!"

Waylon hummed his consent and followed Eddie out of the hospital, and into Eddie's old truck. He was silent during the ride home, staring out at the horizon as though searching for something—anything—familiar. They pulled up to Eddie's shack and Waylon stepped out slowly, staring in horror at the dilapidated building.

"I…I live here?" he asked in a small voice. Waylon let out a girlish squeal and jumped to hide behind Eddie as three Doberman Pinschers rushed over to greet their owner. They immediately began barking loudly at Waylon.

"Who's a good boy! Who's a good boy! Say hi to mommy," said Eddie. The dogs were already sniffing around the new arrival with their ears standing straight up and noses working overtime.

"What…I have dogs? And they call me mommy?"

"Of course, darling," said Eddie, roughly petting two of the dogs at the same time. "Look at their faces!" Eddie bent down and squeezed one of the dog's faces in his hand, scratching at the dog's snout. "Guess their names! I know that you know them, you helped name them after all…"

Waylon stared for a long time before shaking his head. "I don't know. Spot?"

"Spot? Come now, darling," said Eddie, standing upright. "This is Sebastian. He's the largest, the alpha of our little pack, if you will. This scamp is Biter," Eddie said, patting another dog's head and earning an immediate nip at his palm. "He's mostly harmless." Eddie beamed at Waylon, savoring the confused, lost look on his face. "Do you want to take a try at the third one, darling?"

Waylon stared at the dog as it came closer, sniffing all over his borrowed clothes. "I…" Waylon's voice broke.

"There, there, now," said Eddie, wrapping a strong arm around Waylon's shoulders. "There's no reason to get emotional over old Stinky. She's the worst of the trio."

Waylon wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, but Eddie still saw the tears present there. "I just want to eat something and go to sleep."

"Absolutely, darling," said Eddie. He slid an arm around Waylon and led him toward the house, opening the door for him. The dogs rushed in before them, almost knocking them both over. Eddie laughed as he kept Waylon upright. "Aren't they grand?"

Eddie carefully walked around the house, pointing out to Waylon which rooms were accessible and which were completely filled with boxes and acted as storage only. He warned Waylon of the more dangerous piles of treasures he should avoid to stay safe. Eddie then brought out a blanket and pillow for the ratty sofa in the living room that was half covered with lumpy, black trash bags.

"I don't sleep in the bedroom?" asked Waylon. "Aren't we married?"

"You will remember soon that I tend to wake up to violent night terrors. And you snore. Plus, you always complain about back problems when you sleep on the bed. That's why we usually sleep separately. Besides, there's not much room in the bed after me and the dogs…and what kind of gentleman would I be if I tried to lure you into my bed, when you have no memory of our relationship? No, I believe you would prefer to sleep out here, where you are more comfortable, of course."

"Of course," said Waylon, parroting Eddie's words. "Can I at least move some of this stuff off of the sofa?"

"If you must, darling, but those bags are full of your clothes," said Eddie. "I went ahead and prepared your pajamas for the night. I know you'll feel better once you're back in your element."

"My element?" asked Waylon, starring as Eddie pulled out a tiny silken garment and handed it to him with a smile. Waylon held the item out and shook it, revealing a short, low-cut, pink, silk nightie, complete with black lace around the edges. "I…I don't understand."

"Well, these are your clothes! This is what you feel most comfortable wearing. I've always been a huge supporter of you being yourself. I think you'll find, once you are back in your element, wearing your clothes, working your job, and seeing the gang—you'll come around. I'm sure of it."

Waylon nodded, his arms holding the nightie falling as he stared into nothingness with a vacant look on his face.

"It's late. I will let you get some rest. I'll wake you up in the morning for work. Perhaps, you will have regained some memories by then?"

"Wait," said Waylon, looking back at Eddie. "What do I do for a living?"

"You work with me, at our bridal shop!" said Eddie. He paused, wondering if mentioning the bridal shop where they had met would trigger some memory. Waylon shook his head and stared down at the ground.

"I just…I don't remember any of this…"

"Give it time, darling," said Eddie, squeezing Waylon's shoulder. "Just give it time."

And in the meanwhile, Eddie grinned to himself as he walked back to the bedroom. He could imagine Lisa and Waylon's other friends and family looking for him, seeking him out, not knowing he was stuck in Leadville working off his debt to his wedding tailor. How long would he really have to humiliate and exploit Waylon? He would have to make the most of the short time.

The walls in Eddie's house had always been thin. He could hear Waylon moving around in the kitchen and the ding of the microwave. Soon, he heard the squeak of the sofa as Waylon settled in for the night. Eddie rolled over, prepared to go to sleep, pleased with his new free labor and sense of justice over the prick who had potentially, single-handedly ruined his business. He felt slightly less satisfied when a new sound carried through the thin wall. Eddie was forced to listen as Waylon softly cried himself to sleep.

—

"Morning, darling," said Eddie as he and the three dogs bounded into the living room. He was already dressed in his vest and slacks ensemble. Waylon sat up, abruptly, throwing the blanket aside as he blinked owlishly into the living room. There was so much clutter that all of the windows were blocked, making it impossible to know the hour.

"M-morning, uh…Eddie," said Waylon, pursing his lips. He sat up on the sofa, pulling the blankets up to cover his scantily clad chest. "Do I call you Eddie? Or something else?"

"Ah," said Eddie, a mischievous grin turning up one side of his mouth. "You call me Eddie, except when we're in the bedroom. Then you call me Long Dong Johnson."

"Please, tell me that's not true…"

"I apologize for being vulgar, I thought, perhaps, our special bedroom name might jolt a memory?"

"No," said Waylon, frowning and letting the blanket drop as he crossed his hands over his chest. Eddie noticed, for the first time, how Waylon looked in his silk nightie. His blond hair was cut short, and it stuck up at strange angles due to sleeping on the couch. THe skin that was revealed was sun-kissed, like someone who enjoyed spending time outdoors, and it was covered with a fine dusting of light hair. Waylon's physique was toned and slender. It was much different than Eddie's own broad shoulders and bulging muscles. He had to shake his head before he went so far as to think Waylon could possibly be attractive.

"Well, get dressed. We need to get going," said Eddie. He walked into the kitchen and started up a pot of cheap coffee.

"These clothes," said Waylon, from the living room. "These belong to me?"

"Yes."

"But…but I'm a man, right?"

"Of course, darling! Please, tell me your accident did not erase the whole 'birds and the bees' speech, because I'm not sure I am prepared for that type of…"

"No. I just…I don't understand why all of these clothing are women's clothing. Am I a cross-dresser?" asked Waylon.

"Oh, darling, we never put a label on it," said Eddie. "You are just yourself. You are Way." The familiar nickname brightened Waylon's mood, as though he were clinging desperately to the one familiar puzzle piece that could potentially to unravel his memory.

"We'll get to the shop," said Eddie. "You work the shop during the morning while I run important errands. Then, I'll bring you brunch and take over around eleven."

"Wait, you can't leave me in a shop, I don't know the first thing about this store, or how we do business, or what we even sell…or…or…"

"Don't worry, darling. I'll show you all you need to know."

By the time Eddie drove away from the bridal shop, Waylon had a list of chores to complete and Eddie's cell number in case a real customer came in, unannounced. Usually, new customers and fittings were done by appointment. Waylon was sweeping the floor of the shop when Eddie drove over to the Rib Shack. Unsurprisingly, Frank Manera was sitting out front wearing his apron, but not his hairnets. Dennis was absorbed with his own business, but he stopped to look up when Eddie sauntered over with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"I take it the documents worked?" asked Dennis, putting away his phone.

"Like a charm," said Eddie.

"Where's the dude?" asked Frank, squinting as he tried to peer around Eddie.

"Working at the shop," said Eddie, a wide grin settling on his face. "It's perfect. This asshole tries to wreck my business, costs me almost half a year's worth of income, but now, he's working in my shop—for free. That's not even the best part." Eddie had to pause to bite his lower lip to keep himself from laughing outright. "You guys just have to see for yourselves."

The trio were commonly hanging out at the Shack after work, but it was rare that all three were sitting outside on a Wednesday morning. They filled a good two hours with chatting and drinking cheap coffee while Pamela prepped for lunch. When Frank's actual morning break finally arrived, the men walked the three blocks to Eddie's shop.

"Now, it's important that you call him Way—or Wayde," said Eddie as they walked. "Other than that, feel free to make it up as you go along. The more embarrassing and ridiculous the better. This guy genuinely remembers nothing about himself."

"Yeah, but, doesn't this feel a little mean, man?" asked Frank.

"Oh, please," said Eddie with a sneer. "Don't pretend to be the better man here. I've seen you spit in a man's food for insulting your favorite character on Sex and the City. This man, and his bitch fiancee, are the cause of my bankruptcy scare. I'll be lucky if I even have a business in three months. This guy's memory could return at any moment. I hope I'm there the minute he remembers who I am, and what he did to me. Then he can rush home to his whore."

"Mean or not, I don't care. You've got me curious," said Dennis. They all three walked into Eddie's shop and immediately paused.

"Darling," Eddie called out. After a few moments, Waylon emerged from the back room. He paused as he noticed that Eddie was not alone, and his cheeks burned bright red. "I thought it might help your memory condition if you talked to your friends—well, my friends, but we welcomed you into the flock."

"Nice dress, man," said Frank, staring openly at Waylon. The short dress was a simple, cotton design with a pattern of light blue, faded flowers across a white background, and the cut fell just above Waylon's knees revealing bare, shapely legs.

"Do you recognize them?" asked Eddie, false hope lighting up his eyes.

"Oh…no. I'm afraid not," said Waylon, blushing as the two newcomers stared at him. Dennis pulled out his phone and began loudly snapping pictures. Waylon frowned intensely as he looked at the phone in confusion.

"Well, this is Frank, he's a line cook at our favorite restaurant. It's actually the place where we got married! Do you remember?" asked Eddie. Waylon frowned and shook his head. "Ah, well, he works at the Rib Shack. And this is Dennis, he…"

"I'm the mayor of Leadville, nice to meet you," said Dennis. "I also used to work for NASA, so, come to me with any rocket science problems."

Frank and Eddie both slowly turned and stared at their friend. When Eddie remembered how to speak, he continued. "Uh, yes, Dennis is….quite the accomplished…well…"

"I'm sorry I don't remember you," said Waylon, walking over to the door where the men were standing. "Is there anything you can tell me, about myself? I've been cleaning up this shop all morning. At first, I thought the outside looked familiar, but it's starting to feel like I have never been here in my life."

"Oh, sure," said Dennis, smiling and giving a knowing side-eye glance to Eddie. "You love working here with Eddie. You two are quite the pair. The shop was your favorite couples project. It may not be doing so great these days, but…" Dennis' explanation was cut off by quick elbow to his ribs.

"The shop is doing fine, ignore Dennis. In addition to being the ex-astronaut Mayor, he's also a real joker…"

"What kinds of things do we like to do together?" asked Waylon, oblivious to the strangeness of the friends' exchange. "Do I have any hobbies? Skills? Passions?"

"Oh, sure," said Frank, nodding for a very long time before noticing that Eddie and Dennis were both staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate. "Oh, uh, right, you like to…garden?"

"But there's nothing but empty flower beds around our house," said Waylon.

"He said you enjoy it, not that you're good at it," said Eddie. Waylon's mouth made a sad 'o,' though he did not reply.

"You're a really great cook," said Dennis. "You love to bake things for the crew. Cakes, cookies, pies, cheesecakes, eclairs…"

"He gets the picture. Yes, darling, you were always passionate about cooking and gardening. You have not been doing them as much lately…."

"Because the house is a landfill?" asked Waylon. Frank and Dennis had to cover their mouths to keep from laughing at Waylon's candor.

"…because of your injury," said Eddie, ignoring the interruption. Waylon stared down at the thick flesh colored wrapping around his sprained ankle.

"I thought the accident was what caused my memory loss?" asked Waylon.

"Oh, no, I explained to the doctors," said Eddie. "That injury was from a couple weeks ago. You were, uh…"

"Jumping a line of cars on your motorcycle," said Frank, his face lighting up with joy that he could be helpful in the conversation. Eddie glared at Frank while Dennis fought laughter.

"I…I ride motorcycles?" asked Waylon. "In my dresses?"

"Yes, you are a cooking, gardening, motorcycle daredevil. That's why I fell for you and married you. Now, I need to get some work done, so if you are sure you don't remember they guys, they need to be getting back to their own jobs."

"This city won't run itself," said Dennis with his best impression of a political candidate's smile.

"How come Dennis gets to be the mayor, but I still have to be a line cook at the Shack?" asked Frank. Eddie responded by pushing both of his friends on their shoulders and escorting them out of the shop.

"See you later, man!" said Frank as Dennis waved his own goodbyes. After the door shut with the tinkling of a bell, Eddie turned and watched as Waylon stood in his dress with his wrapped ankle and stared forlornly at the floor.

"Oh, do cheer up, darling! This melancholy attitude is not like you at all…"

"Nothing here feels like me," said Waylon, brown eyes flashing. "I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're my husband. We work in this shop. Our friends are morons. That's all," said Eddie, patting Waylon on the back. "It will come back to you. For now, we need to get back to work. There are customers coming in after lunch."

Waylon proved useful in the shop. He rearranged the displays, organized the fabric books, swept the floors, and wiped the windows. On the drive home, Waylon could hardly keep his eyes open despite the early hour. Eddie went into the bedroom to change. Immediately upon emerging in his comfortable clothing, Eddie sat in his usual chair and turned on the television.

"You know where the kitchen is, yes?" Waylon nodded from where he was sitting listless on the couch. "Great," said Eddie with a grin. "Cooking was always your hobby and duty. There's no table so we usually each out here—just bring me a plate of whatever you whip up."

Eddie's attention returned to the television as Waylon shuffled into the kitchen with the livelihood of a zombie. Eddie lost track of time as he watched the usual game shows that came on over the antennae. Soon, a paper plate of steaming spaghetti and sauce was thrust into his face, along with a plastic fork. Eddie sat upright in his chair and accepted the food as Waylon sat down on his couch and began to eat. Eddie was pleased that the noodles were at least the correct consistency.

"I looked around," said Waylon, "but I could not find any cookbooks. I don't know what I used to cook." Waylon stared at his plate as he pushed around the saucy noodles.

"Don't worry about that, darling," said Eddie. "Your recipes always came directly from your head. They will return to you, in time, I'm sure."

They continued to eat in silence with the television on as background noise. Once dinner was complete, Waylon took the plates and deposited them in the garbage before returning to his couch. He rifled through the black garbage bag and pulled out another nightgown made of soft cotton that was floor-length and light pink. Waylon carried it into the bathroom and Eddie heard the shower turn on. After some time, Waylon returned to the couch and curled up under his blanket in his nightgown. Eddie stood up and whistled to the dogs who all three came bounding into the living room.

"WE are on our way to bed," said Eddie. "Sleep well."

"I slept like shit," said Waylon, causing Eddie to pause mid-step on his way to the bedroom.

"Oh. I'm sorry," said Eddie, turning away from Waylon so he could not see the smirk that declared he was decidedly not sorry. "You'll get used to it, again, I promise…"

"What is all this stuff?" asked Wayon, gesturing around the room at the stacks of boxes and random junk cluttering up the house.

"Why, antiques! Treasures. Valuables. It's a lifetime of collecting, together," said Eddie.

"So, what? We're hoarders, or something?" asked Waylon.

"Hoarders? No, we are…collectors. Some of these boxers belonged to my late mother. The items are from the fifties, they're all very valuable."

Waylon hummed to himself as though he did not truly believe Eddie before laying his head down on the couch and pulling the blanket up to his chin.

"Good night, darling," said Eddie. Once again, Eddie was stopped when Waylon asked another question in the dim light of the living room.

"Was I happy?"

"Pardon?" asked Eddie, unsure he had heard Waylon correctly because the words were spoken so softly.

"Was I happy? With my life here, with you, all of it—was I happy?" asked Waylon.

"Of course," said Eddie. "You were the happiest man in town." Eddie hurried into his bedroom and shut the door. Once again, the paper thin walls proved extremely inconvenient and Eddie cursed the luck that his bedroom had to share a wall with one in the living room. Through the wall, he could hear Waylon sobbing quietly to himself, until he finally fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3: Fabricated Memories

**Chapter 3: Fabricated Memories**

"So, let me get this straight," said Pamela, the next morning at the Shack, "you dressed this poor guy up in dresses, lied to him about his past, and are forcing him to work in your shop, cook your meals, and clean your place-for free?"

"Ten. Thousand. Dollars," said Eddie, enunciating each word. The three friends sat around their usual table, sipping coffee, and chatting. There were very few people in the restaurant that early as the Shack did not, technically, serve breakfast. Pamela allowed her friends and regular customers to come in and enjoy cheap coffee. "I had really important plans for that money. Plans that could save the business. I'll never be able to come up with the funds in time, now."

"That's sick, even for you," said Pamela, giving a chuckle and shaking her head. Her bright orange hair was up in a red bandana that day. "How long do you think it will last?"

"Until his memory returns, I would assume," said Eddie, waving his hand at the question, as though he were swatting a fly. "Any day now."

"What if it lasts longer?" asked Pamela.

"Yeah, what if it lasts, like, forever, man?" asked Frank.

"The doctors were very unclear about the situation. I wouldn't think it could last for very long. The man will be angry, but he would learn a valuable lesson. Besides, it's not like I have much to lose," said Eddie, staring at the table with a dark expression.

"Oh, you alway manage to weasel your way out of going under," said Pamela. "I believe in you." She slapped Eddie on the back hard enough to make him spill some of his coffee on the table. His eyebrows settled into an annoyed line over his eyes. "Just don't sleep with him," she added. Eddie spluttered anew at the accusation, causing all of the others present to laugh.

"You're not planning on fucking him, right?" asked Dennis.

"Of course, not," snapped Eddie, lifting his chin up at the indignity of the accusations. "I gave up dating years ago. He sleeps on the couch. I told him we never share a bed. He accepts it as truth, so it is not an issue. I would not push something like that on any person, even if I was attracted. I'm in this for the monetary revenge, not to sexually assault someone."

"I still feel sorry for him, man," said Frank, long, straggly hair swinging as he shook his head. "Not knowing who, or what he is, and being thrown into such a strange situation. I know he did you wrong, man, but…at least, be a little nice to him? You don't want to push someone like that. What if he decides he doesn't like this life you convinced him he has, and does something drastic?"

"Yeah, and what's with the way you were talking to him," said Dennis, leaning forward, "calling him 'darling' like he's one of your dogs. It's all a little over the top, don't you think?"

Eddie frowned, though he stared at the table, considering the new suggestions. "I'll make sure he works off his debt for as long as possible.. But other than that, I will strive to make sure he is not _completely_ depressed. To the best of my abilities, at least."

* * *

The week continued in the same fashion. Waylon worked in the shop during the day, and cooked their meals in the evenings. Eddie got more time to hang with his friends, and free labor around the shop. Even the time Eddie spent in his house with Waylon was not completely unbearable. One evening, Eddie exited the shower to find Waylon rummaging through a few open boxes.

"What are you doing, darling?"

"Why are there no pictures of me?" asked Waylon.

"What do you mean?" asked Eddie, fighting to keep his face neutral and calm.

"There's no pictures of me around here. I was looking for a photo album, or a scrapbook, something like that? I don't remember anything. Maybe it would help if I could see some pictures?"

"Ah, yes, but of course, you remember…" Eddie paused and shook his head, buying himself time to think up a story, "no, of course you don't remember." Eddie gave a long exhale. "Well, there was a fire, and it burned away all of our printed photo albums. You have a very strict rule about digital photographs of you being put anywhere online. I follow your wishes, of course, like a good husband. Unfortunately, that means we have lost all of our photographs."

"Do I have any other family?" asked Waylon, a pensive look coming over his face as he paused in his search and looked at Eddie.

"Oh, of course you have family! A rather large family at that," said Eddie, nodding away. "It's a shame we never get to visit them, since they all live on the compound."

"The compound?" asked Waylon

"Oh yes," said Eddie, nodding. "They are all very happy, though they shun technology. Some call them a cult, but you always stressed to me that it was a loving, happy commune."

"My family are all in a cult?" asked Waylon, face creasing with worry.

"Well, not all of them! Your father passed away," said Eddie.

"Oh, what about my mother?" asked Waylon.

"Alive and well, and up for parole in a few more years," said Eddie, smiling.

"My mother's in prison?"

"Oh she's innocent, darling, they were never able to prove beyond a doubt that she had anything to do with your father's death. Accidental arsenic poison is more prevalent than people know," said Eddie.

Waylon stopped listening and dropped his head into his hands. "My mom killed my dad, my family's in a cult, and I live in this disgusting trash heap with a man who makes no room for me, and doesn't even have a single photograph of me?"

"I had them, but there was the fire!" said Eddie. Waylon frowned, but his eyes narrowed as he watched Eddie's face carefully. "I can find some!" Eddie added in a rush. "Yes, I'll just let the guys know to bring whatever photographs they have of you. I can't imagine it's much, but it will be something…"

Waylon smiled and nodded his thanks before settling onto his sofa to sleep. It was the first night that Eddie did not hear him crying through the wall.

* * *

The next day, after work, Eddie swung by the Shack and brought Waylon. They joined Frank and Dennis at the usual table, and put in their orders for ribs and coleslaw. The restaurant was moderately busy in the evenings with classic country music blaring over the speakers.

Eddie was still dressed in his fine clothes for work, a blue bowtie matching his blue vest and slacks. Waylon was wearing an adorable mint green sundress and dingy white sandals.

"Alright," said Eddie after the crew was sitting back, waiting for their food. "I asked the guys to bring whatever photographs they had lying around."

"Happy to help, my dear friend," said Dennis, smirking very obviously at Eddie until Waylon cast a suspicious side-eye glance. Dennis pulled out a file folder and tossed it on the table. "Enjoy."

Eddie glared at Dennis and attempted to pull the folder to himself so he could check the photographs before allowing Waylon to see them. But Waylon was too quick, easily intercepting the folder and raising an eyebrow at Eddie. "Afraid of what I might find out?" he asked.

"Of course not, darling," said Eddie, chuckling nervously. "I just can't always trust my friends not to play some cruel, practical joke…"

"Yes, we are the ones always playing cruel, practical jokes," said Dennis, leveling a flat stare across the table.

Waylon gave a short exhale and opened the folder, staring down at the printed out photographs in wonder.

"That's your wedding, there," said Dennis as Waylon stared down at a photograph of two men in tuxedos. Eddie could tell his face, and Waylon's, had been photo-shopped onto the picture. It was not even a particularly well done photoshopping job, either. Eddie was smiling appropriately, but Waylon was frowning—the way he had been the day when Dennis had first met him, and snapped his pictures.

"I'm frowning? On my wedding day?" asked Waylon.

"Oh, that picture is just a bad one, it was taken right after…"

"Eddie knocked over the cake," said Frank, nodding to himself. Eddie glared at him, one lip rising in a sneer.

Waylon flipped through the next photographs and saw a person in a dress bending over a flowerbed. There were several other snapshots of him, frowning, while standing with either Eddie, Frank, or Dennis.

"Why do I always look so unhappy?" mumbled Waylon. "I look depressed. You said I was the happiest man in town?"

"You always claimed it was unbecoming to smile in photographs, darling," said Eddie. Waylon gave a short _hmph_. He turned to the next picture and then looked up at Dennis while lifting an eyebrow.

"Sorry, that's you, in the helmet, you just can't see your face," said Dennis. Eddie craned his neck to view the photographs as Waylon flipped through several pictures of a man wearing a red-and-white jumpsuit, complete with a cape, and a helmet hiding his face. "Like Frank said, you were a daredevil!"

Waylon stared in confusion before setting aside the photographs and looking at the next one. "Who is that?"

"That's your karate master, Jackie Chan. This picture is from the day you earned your black belt…" said Dennis. Eddie winced as he saw the picture of the celebrity, smiling and shaking the hand of a man wearing a karate gi, with Waylon's frowning face edited onto the man. Eddie tensed, wondering if some part of Waylon's memory might still recognize the celebrity. If he could remember that, maybe he would realize that all of the pictures were false, and become suspicious.

"I know karate?" asked Waylon. He set the picture aside and stared down at the last picture in the folder. His cheeks turned an obvious shade of crimson, causing Eddie to snatch the photograph out of the folder, and pull it close to his chest.

"Aw, man, why did you make…I mean, why did you bring that picture, Dennis?" asked Frank, staring at the photograph from over Eddie's shoulder. Eddie pulled the photograph to his body and glared at Dennis.

"It was from that one party that night that Way had a little too much to drink. You weren't there, Frank. He did a striptease, just for me and Eddie," said Dennis, struggling to keep himself from laughing out loud. Eddie slipped the offending photograph into his pocket, and snorted in Dennis' direction.

"I have one! I have one!" Pamela's voice carried across the busy restaurant as he produced a printed photograph while grinning proudly. She gave a very obvious wink to Eddie, which set his nerves on edge. Pamela held the picture in Waylon's face.

"What's all over me?" asked Waylon, frowning.

"Hot sauce! This is from the time you defeated the Rib Shack Wing Challenge," said Pamela with a huge grin. Eddie groaned and rolled his eyes. "You probably don't remember, obviously. The Shack has a contest: anyone who can eat ten of our spicy wings in twenty minutes wins free food and drinks for their party—all night! You are one of only a handful of people to complete the challenge. The sauce is so spicy, most give up after the first taste. It's made with Ghost Peppers!"

Waylon's eyes went wide as he stared at the picture. "Is that why I look so unhappy about it?" asked Waylon.

"You're a local legend around here," said Pamela, smirking.

"That explains why everyone's staring at me," muttered Waylon. Eddie circled his head around and saw that several customers were, indeed, staring at their table and whispering. Probably about the man in the dress.

The rest of the dinner passed painlessly enough. Eddie and Waylon finally arrived home to the usual attack from the dogs. They all three stood and barked angrily at Waylon, per usual, despite Eddie's insistence that they desist. Once inside, Eddie removed his fine clothes and Waylon changed into a different nightgown.

"This place is disgusting," said Waylon as he sat down on the couch. "I don't understand how we can live like this? Maybe this weekend, we could tackle some laundry, and choose a room to clean out?"

"The clutter never bothered you before," said Eddie with a swat of his hand. "I see no reason to change now."

"Well, I do," said Waylon, sitting up on the couch to glare at Eddie. "You have no idea what I am going through. I know I'm your husband, but I don't feel like I even _know_ you. Nothing about this house is familiar. I see these pictures, and have no memory of getting married, or riding a motorcycle, or learning karate, or eating an insane amount of hot wings. And if I can't remember, that's fine, but I should at least be able to move forward, and figure out who I am, now. Maybe I don't like those things anymore. Maybe I don't like _you_ anymore. Maybe, I'm different…"

"People don't change like that," said Eddie, the words coming out quick as a whip. Waylon's eyes went wide, and Eddie realized it was the first time he had spoken to Waylon without the usual false niceties. "I apologize, darling. It's been a long day. This is all very strange and new for me, as well. If you want to clean, then, we'll see what we can do."

"Thank you," said Waylon. "Goodnight, Eddie."

Back in the bedroom, surrounded by his dogs, Eddie began to wonder if having Waylon in his house was such a good idea. He wanted free labor—not someone to come in, and disrupt his life. At least it was only temporary. Waylon's memories would come flooding back any day, and bring the entire charade to an end.

* * *

The shop was always closed on Sundays, save for bridal emergencies. Eddie woke up to the desperate whining of the dogs as they clawed at the bedroom door. The smell of eggs and bacon soon met his nose, and he realized the reason for their behavior. When Eddie walked through the maze of boxes and junk in the kitchen, he found Waylon humming over a skillet of eggs with bacon laying on the counter, cooked, and resting on a paper towel. He was wearing a knee length dress that was bright red with black polka dots. There was even a matching headband in his hair.

The reason for the dresses had been to add to the man's humiliation. And it was practical, because Eddie had a large supply of women's clothing. Eddie had never expected Waylon to take to the idea. He had not anticipated Waylon grooming himself and owning the dresses like they were meant for him. That morning, Eddie found him…pleasant. Waylon smiled at him when he walked into the kitchen.

"I thought, maybe if I got back into the habit of doing things I enjoy, it might help with my memory," said Waylon, scooping some of the eggs onto a plate and tossing a couple of pieces of bacon beside them. One piece dropped to the ground, instigating a growling fight between the dogs. Waylon yelped and tried to jump out of the way. Eddie had the dogs rushing out of the room with one loud command.

"Sorry about that. Thank you for breakfast, said Eddie, taking his food into the living room.. He proceeded to eat his breakfast in front of the television set. He barely noticed when Waylon wandered back into the room and ate his own food in silence.

"I've been thinking about what you said," said Waylon.

Eddie paused with a mouthful of bacon and slowly turned to stare at Waylon as he chewed. Waylon put his plate aside and produced a crumpled piece of paper. Eddie finally swallowed. "You've been…thinking about me?" he asked.

"Well, you were right. I've only been focusing on myself, and that's getting me nowhere. So, instead, I thought I might focus on _you_. I wrote down some questions…if you don't mind. Sorry, if this seems…stupid."

"Questions? What kind of questions," asked Eddie.

Waylon handled the paper in his hands, unfolding it and clearing his throat. "How old are you?"

"Forty six," said Eddie, putting on a serious expression.

"Where were you born?"

"Leadville, born and raised, darling."

"How did you meet Dennis and Frank?"

"Well, Frank and I went to school together. We've been friends ever since. We both stayed in town. Dennis is Pamela's cousin. We met him hanging around the Shack and he proved to be a useful guy. He's been the third in our crew for over ten years.

"Third? Am I not part of the crew yet?" asked Waylon.

"You're my husband, it's a different position than crew member," said Eddie.

"What were you like as a kid? Tell me about you growing up."

"My mother was very loving, and kind. But she was…" Eddie choked back the words. It was highly improper to have such an intimate conversation with someone he had just met. But a small part of him was tired of lying to Waylon. Lying through omission was better than lying outright, he told himself. "…she was a peach."

"Your father?" asked Waylon. Eddie dropped his head and forced a smile onto his face before he lifted his head back up.

"My childhood was great. Just like an episode of _Leave it to Beaver_. Just swell."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Wha…" Eddie was confused by the sudden topic shift. Had Waylon bought his story? "Blue."

"When did you know you were gay?" asked Waylon, staring down at his paper again.

"Oh…" Eddie slowly exhaled, a confused expression on his face. "That's complicated." It was grumbled more than said, and Eddie noticed Waylon's gaze turning suspiciously. "I have, uh, that is…"

It was strange. Very strange. Eddie had not dated a woman in over ten years. He had not dated at all. He made peace with his attraction to men. It had taken years for him to recognize that he had those inclinations, and accept himself for having them. But because he did not date, he had never had to officially come out to anyone.

A fear crept to the forefront of Eddie's mind. The fear that the Waylon Park who had walked into his shop the first time would feel more uncomfortable, once the truth was revealed, if he knew Eddie was interested in men. Would it make him uncomfortable that a gay man was faking a relationship with him? Was that somehow worse than a straight man playing an unforgivable prank?

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air before Eddie sighed. "I used to date women. I never found anyone that was a match, personally or sexually. I was more attracted to the _idea_ of being in a relationship with a man, but I had no desire to seek out a relationship with anyone. Until I met you, I had never talked to anyone about my sexual orientation."

"I pulled you out of the closet, then?" asked Waylon, grinning.

"Well," said Eddie, attempting to stall. He knew he was cornered. His friends didn't know his inclinations. But Waylon believed they were married, and that meant his friends would obviously know by that point. "Yes, you did."

"When I wear these dresses," said Waylon, back to staring at the written page. "Do I shave myself?"

"Pardon?"

"The stockings and underwear seem like they would work better without hair, but since I woke up with so much body hair, I thought maybe I had _not_ been shaving…"

"I would never ask you to change something like that for my sake," said Eddie.

"Would you _mind_ if I tried shaving?" asked Waylon.

"No," said Eddie, shrugging casually.

"Then, I'll shave tonight," said Waylon, smiling. Eddie's throat suddenly felt dry. The idea of Waylon bending over in the shower, dragging a razor up his leg, excited him—badly. "I'll think of more questions, and write them down for later. I appreciate you being patient with me…"

"Anytime, darling. No need to be so formal," said Eddie, grinning.

"Oh, one more thing that…well, I didn't write it down but, I've been curious," said Waylon. Eddie smiled and waved for him to proceed. "Well, if I always sleep on the couch, where do we usually…uh…" Eddie raised one eyebrow, and it was soon joined by the other as it slowly dawned on him what Waylon meant.

"Ah, yes, well…that's more of a recent development, the snoring and back pain. I feel it's prudent to keep with our current situation for the time being, until you are more comfortable," said Eddie.

Waylon nodded. "Thank you." He sounded so sincere, it hurt Eddie's chest. "There's hardly any food in the pantry" he said, after a long pause. Eddie hummed to indicate he had heard. "Maybe we could go to the store, later?"

Eddie put on a hurt expression, pushing his lower lip out for extra effect. "Terribly sorry, darling, but I am meeting the guys at the Shack today."

"Oh, well, I can tag along…"

"No. No, there's no reason for you to come along. Why don't I leave some spending cash? You can take some time to re-familiarize yourself with the house, and purchase the groceries yourself? The grocer is only just down the road."

"Oh. Sure. Of course," said Waylon. It was ridiculous to feel guilty about excluding Waylon. He was not really his husband, nor even his friend. Everything he knew of the man pointed to him being a soulless bastard. Someone who felt everyone else was beneath them because of some perceived status. Someone who was engaged to a woman, and appeased her every whim. His current roommate did not resemble that at all.

* * *

"That's your complaint, really? He wants to clean?" asked Dennis, staring at Eddie.

"You know I'm very particular about my house," said Eddie.

"Yes, particular about never letting anyone in there because of how messy it is, man," said Frank before shoving another rib in his face, already covered with smears of red barbecue sauce.

"We can't all live the minimalist existence of bean bags and bead curtains like you. Besides, it's all antiques and collectibles. They're _invaluable_ ," said Eddie.

" _Unvaluable_ , more like," said Dennis, taking a long sip of his Budweiser. "You need to get rid of that junk. If this guy carries it out for you, for free, then this whole complicated charade has been good for something."

"Good for something," muttered Eddie. "I keep losing sight of what that is really about: revenge. Just imagine the look on this guy's face when he realizes whose house he's been cleaning—who owns the shop he's been working." A devious grin spread across Eddie's face. Frank shook his head.

"Bad karma, man," said Frank, shoving in another mouthful of meat. When he continued, his mouth was full. "Any chance his memory is on the mend, yet?"

Eddie watched as a chunk of meat flew out of Frank's open mouth and onto the table. His lip curled in disgust. "Try to chew with your mouth closed, Frank. And no, I have not seen any indication that he is making any progress with his memory. Maybe the doctor would have more answers. We could go back to the hospital and get a check-up for his condition, and the sprain on his ankle seems to have healed…"

"Who's paying those medical bills?" asked Dennis, fighting to keep a knowing smile off of his lips.

"Shit," said Eddie, bringing his hands up to his face. "Is it too late to drop him off at the fire station and run away?"

"He's not an infant," said Dennis with a snorting laugh.

"Maybe you'll get used to having him around, man. He could be a good roommate," said Frank.

"At least he is a lot less irritating than you two," grumbled Eddie. He had planned on spending the afternoon relaxing with his friends, not worrying about Waylon. Was revenge on Waylon worth all the effort it was taking to continue the ruse? Was a ten-thousand-dollar debt worth it when the man he was angry with had changed into a pleasant person? Eddie questioned why he would even waste so much effort worrying about Waylon's feelings.

* * *

Eddie pulled up to his house that evening and whistled for the dogs, but they never came. He began to look around, suddenly worried about his babies. He rushed into the house, and was greeted with the delicious smell of cooking meat. His mouth automatically began to salivate, until he noticed the walkway toward the kitchen had grown much wider.

"Darling?" Eddie called out, walking toward the kitchen. Waylon's head appeared in the threshold. The headband perfectly kept his sweaty blond hair away from his face as he cooked, and Eddie found himself admiring the man's sense of style. Even considering the high quality of the garments he had offered Waylon, it took a good eye for fashion to create such complimentary ensembles. Eddie appreciated such talents, as a designer himself.

"Eddie! How did it go with the guys?" asked Waylon.

"What happened to the boxes in the living room?" asked Eddie.

"Oh, I went shopping, and then I cleaned around in the living room. Some of the boxes were half empty, so I started going through them, and consolidating all of the items. I was able to clear out five boxes! Now, I can sleep on the entire sofa! Isn't that great news?"

"You didn't throw anything away?" demanded Eddie.

"No," said Waylon, pausing to turn back where the three dogs were sitting, still as statues, on the kitchen floor. "Stay," said Waylon, before tearing off three pieces of bacon and giving one to each dog. After the dogs finished licking their chops, they returned to their statue like behavior.

"What have you done to my babies?" asked Eddie, his tone worried.

"I only went through the boxes that were in my way. I did not throw anything out. I found some of the most beautiful porcelain…"

"Don't touch my things," said Eddie, fighting to keep his rage in check.

"Your things? We're married! I own half of everything here," said Waylon, turning back toward the stove where he was stirring a simmering pots of green beans with large pieces of bacon floating in the water.

Eddie had to force himself to take a few deep breaths and compose his thoughts. Was it possible Waylon had regained his memories, and was now turning the tables on him, to make his life a living hell as retribution? "Why are the dogs behaving?"

"Doberman Pinschers are very intelligent. They respond well to positive reinforcement. We've been working all day. They're not perfect, but it's a start."

"What's for dinner?"

"Pork tenderloin and some green beans," said Waylon, looking at Eddie's face to judge his reaction. "Is…is that alright? I was at the grocery store, but I couldn't, for the life of me, remember anything you like to eat. I just took a stab in the dark…"

"No. That is…acceptable," said Eddie, his eyes glancing around at the kitchen counters. They were clutter free, and freshly cleaned. "What about the boxes in here?"

"All moved into the other boxes out in the living room," said Waylon, smiling brightly. "It's a great beginning, don't you agree?"

Eddie grumbled. He hated how much he enjoyed the pork Waylon cooked. He hated that his dogs were all three sitting, obediently, beside Waylon's sofa instead of beside the arm of Eddie's chair. He hated how adorable Waylon had looked when he caught Eddie staring and smiled with his mouth full of food. The smug asshole who talked down to him, and sank his business, was now the brightest part of his day. And Eddie hated it.


	4. Chapter 4: Unbidden Thoughts

**Chapter 4: Unbidden Thoughts**

Eddie ground his teeth so hard he could feel the enamel chipping away, and felt powerless to stop himself. "Madam. If you could look here, you would understand why that is not a feasible idea for a wedding gown. This design will not work with an unforgiving fabric, like silk. There are plenty of fabrics available that would work, if you could just…"

"If you can't make a silk gown, just say so," said the bride-to-be, turning up her nose.

"I can make a silk gown, I just would not be able to fit you into it, especially not if you insist on ordering a size smaller than your measurements because of some mythical diet," said Eddie.

The bride-to-be and her mother sat staring in shock. "We do not have to take this," said the mother of the bride. "We drove here, all the way from Denver, and here we are, being insulted! This is some convoluted excuse to make it _our_ fault that _you_ cannot perform a simple request."

Eddie opened his mouth to say something vile in response, but Waylon intercepted.

"Hello, ladies," said Waylon, smiling brightly. "I apologize for my husband."

Both of the women exchanged a quick glance. Waylon was wearing a black dress with a pattern of tiny white flowers, and a matching headband. The two customers were dressed nicely, but Waylon's fashionable ensemble easily outshone them. "I couldn't help overhearing the problem, and I wanted to help you both. Please, if you'll follow me, I have a fabric book that will demonstrate what my husband is failing to explain. You have to forgive him, he's always so _passionate_ about his work."

Waylon led the women to a table, and opened up a book he had organized himself. It contained swatches of fabrics Eddie owned, or could order. Waylon carefully explained, in polite and careful terms, how many people who want silk actually just want a silken look, which is achievable using more forgiving fabrics.

"The dress is exponentially more comfortable, and no one will know it is not pure silk. My husband never puts tags in his creations, so no one will ever know the difference—except you. And you will be thankful, once you start to sweat, and you do not have to worry about ruining the silk. You have much bigger things to worry about at your wedding day than something so easily managed."

The women ate it up. They loved Waylon. The mother of the bride signed a contract, and put a large deposit on the wedding gown. Eddie rejoined them to help with the design process, and answered their questions about the minutia of creating a gown. By the time they exited the shop, they were completely satisfied, and promised to return the next week with the entire wedding party to discuss the bridesmaid dresses and tuxedos.

After the door bell signaled their exit, Eddie turned and stared at Waylon. "You are…"

"Amazing? I know," said Waylon, a smug grin appearing on his face. "Is this how I helped before? You have terrible people skills, you know…"

"I can't believe you...that...that job you just won. It's going to mean the difference in life or death for the shop. And my project...You're an absolute blessing…"

"You should let me help out with more of the business," said Waylon, blushing at the praise. "I don't know how I used to be, but I know how I want to be, moving forward. And I want to help you, however I can."

Eddie's face attempted to smile, but the result was probably more or less a wobbly straight line. The guilt. Oh, the soul crushing guilt. A small voice in his head seemed to whisper that the man's debt had been repaid. Eddie no longer had any reason to punish Waylon, or treat him unkindly.

A voice urged Eddie to come clean—right then and there. He ignored it. Instead, he swept Waylon into a tight hug. "Thank you, darling."

* * *

That evening, Waylon was digging through more boxes in the living room. "Hey, these are my documents that you brought to the hospital. I'm taking back my driver's license, unless you have any objections?"

"Oh," said Eddie, pursing his lips as he tried to think of a reason against the proposal. "I suppose that will be fine."

"You suppose?" asked Waylon, grinning at the plastic card. "Hmm. Twenty eight? This barely looks like me."

"You had a different haircut," said Eddie.

"And a different hairline? I don't have a widow's peak…"

"You had taken to styling it different…" said Eddie.

"It doesn't say on here that I am certified to operate a motorcycle?" asked Waylon.

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, Frank and Dennis said that I like to ride motorcycles. They have so many pictures of me in that suit and helmet."

"Ah, yes, well, about that…you only rode the motorcycles for fun and performance, never for transportation, so you did not feel the need to take the official course," said Eddie.

"Hmm, what a waste," said Waylon, tucking the card away in a deep pocket on his black floral dress. "I think it would be cooler if I had the credentials to back up my daredevil antics. I don't feel very much like a daredevil, at all. I think I might be too scared to ride a motorcycle, now."

"Oh, don't push yourself so hard! You have to think of your sprained ankle. Your memory will return one day, and then…" _you will hate me, leave me, and know exactly what kind of petty, cruel person I can be_. "…you'll be right back to your old self." The pretentious prick that had first walked into the shop.

Waylon hummed in agreement and lifted up another piece of paper. "I took a pottery course?"

"Yes."

"Was I any good?"

"No, I'm afraid you were absolutely horrible. You personally broke and buried all evidence that you ever attended the class."

"But it says here that I passed with ah 'E' for Excellent," said Waylon, frowning.

"It's a course at the rec center, everyone makes an 'E' just for attending," said Eddie.

"Ah," said Waylon, setting the paper aside. "It's so strange, trying to figure out who I am—and who you are. I had some other questions if you didn't mind?"

"What more do you wish to know?" asked Eddie, struggling to keep the worry out of his tone.

"How did you learn to sew?" asked Waylon.

"My mother taught me from a young age," said Eddie. "She was a decorated seamstress. She was very busy supporting our family. I did not see her much when I was small…"

"Was your father also in the business?" asked Waylon.

"My…my father…well," Eddie's mouth had suddenly gone dry and he forced back the most unpleasant memories. "He was perfect. Like I said, we were a family right out of _Leave it to Beaver_. This house belonged to my mother, before she died. I moved in, and inherited everything in it. I miss her. Dearly," said Eddie, before realizing his admission and clearing his throat.

"Have you and I lived here since we've been together?" asked Waylon. Eddie nodded in response. "But you said there was a fire that destroyed all of our photographs?"

"Ah yes, the shed burnt down. It's where you stored most of your personal things and our photographs," said Eddie, smoothly.

"What shed? I hadn't noticed any other buildings on the property," said Waylon, frowning.

"Obviously you wouldn't see it if it _burnt down_ ," said Eddie, feeling irritation rising in his tone. The more lies he told, the more he seemed to keep trapping himself. Waylon's curiosity was dangerous. Eddie frowned and avoided meeting Waylon's gaze.

"I'm sorry for bringing up sensitive subjects. I can tell talking about some of these things is painful for you. I just have no idea about you, other than what I see now," said Waylon.

"What do you see now, then?" asked Eddie, forgetting his agitation. He sat up straighter, striking a statuesque post as Waylon looked him up and down and pursed his lips.

"You are very caring to the dogs. You take good care of me. You are a hard worker. You're prickly with most people—but you are patient with those that you care about. You have a bit of a hoarding problem, but, other than that…I think I was a lucky man, to find someone like you. I'm actually sad that I don't remember how we met."

"Ah, how we met," said Eddie, staring down at his hands. "You walked through the door of my shop, and…well, you made me rather angry with your demands."

Waylon laughed out loud, and Eddie could not stop himself from finding it a most delightful sound. He wanted to hear it more often. It was a nice change to see Waylon smiling and laughing instead of frowning and crying himself to sleep.

"So, no love at first sight?" asked Waylon, grinning.

"Absolutely not," said Eddie, shaking his head. He had a clear picture in that moment of Waylon the first day they had met. His useless, bored expression while Lisa had refused the dresses. The smug grin when he had threatened Eddie with litigation. The angry, frightened expression in his eyes when Eddie had grabbed him by the arm. "You were horrible. I couldn't stand you."

"Ouch. What changed your mind?" asked Waylon. Eddie did not answer for several breaths as he remained absorbed in the vile memories of that terrible day. He seemed to remember that Waylon had asked something and he was shocked back to the present.

"Changed? Oh, well…" Eddie stared at Waylon, sitting on the sofa in his dress. His blond hair was brushed back and held in place by a headband. His soft brown eyes were wide and curious, reminding Eddie of a doe he had once encountered on an early morning walk. In that instant, he found it impossible to reconcile the pushy asshole from the shop that day with the gentle, doe-eyed man sitting in his house. "I suppose you grew on me."

"I should hope so, since we are married now," said Waylon, snickering softly.

"Yes, of course," said Eddie, nodding as he stared down at his hands. It was unnerving to lie to Waylon while staring into those innocent brown eyes. "I may have had the wrong impression of you in the beginning. I realized the mistake and started trying to prove myself to you-to show you the best of myself. And you began to accept me. And it was the best feeling I had experienced in my entire life…" Eddie was shocked when he realized, after he said it, that it was true. It was a relief to be able to tell Waylon something true.

Waylon smiled and put aside the papers. "I'm going to get ready for bed," he said, standing up. He paused before walking into the bathroom, glancing back into the living room where Eddie sat. "I forgot to mention something else I see now."

Eddie felt himself freeze at the strange expression on Waylon's face. His cheeks were flushed, his hands restless, and his eyes canted down to the floor, as though unable to look up.

"You are very tall, and handsome. I find you very attractive." And with that shy admission, Waylon hurried into the bathroom, and shut the door behind himself, probably louder than intended.

Eddie could only stare, baffled. That new complication was definitely not part of his revenge plan.

* * *

Another week passed pleasantly. The next Sunday, Waylon insisted that they go into town together to shop. He was wearing a yellow sundress with a boat cut neckline that fell just above his knees, and a pair of grass green flats. Eddie had almost forgotten how strange it was that Waylon was wearing dresses everyday until he saw the reaction of people around the town.

Eddie had already grown to expect and appreciate Waylon's carefully orchestrated outfits. After three weeks, they were no longer strange to Eddie, and he no longer considered them part of any punishment for Waylon, either. Though he thought the Waylon Park he had met that day with Lisa may see it a bit differently.

Eddie detested shopping for food for himself and tended to eat canned or frozen meals. Waylon possessed a knack for finding deals and planning meals in advance. After they had the groceries loaded in the truck, Waylon stood staring at the discount department store located adjacent to the supermarket.

"Eddie," said Waylon, taking a deep breath as though preparing for something serious, "I know that I used to wear dresses, like this. But I feel different lately. I might want to dress differently, now. People…well, they tend to stare."

A family of four very obviously walked out of the supermarket pushing a shopping basket and stopped in their tracks, staring at Waylon. Eddie might have suspected that Waylon had planned it that way, until he noticed all of the other people also double-checking when they passed Waylon—wondering whether it was a woman or a man, most likely. In fact, there were more people stopping to stare than there were people passing without noticing him. Perhaps it was because the particular shade of yellow that day was especially fetching. Eddie thought Waylon looked lovely.

"It never bothered you before," said Eddie, hedging.

"I know. But…I'm sorry if this seems wrong, but, I almost don't care what I used to be. I only care about what I am now. And maybe I don't want to wear dresses anymore. Maybe I want to wear more casual clothes like, pants, and jeans, and…"

Eddie sighed and stared away. Lately, he was feeling more and more guilty about what he was doing to Waylon. Allowing him to wear men's clothing was not even giving up much. So, why was he so disappointed? Could it be that something inside of him truly enjoyed the way Waylon looked in his dresses? The way the cut flattered his figure and showed off his masculine shoulders, or the way the short hem left his shapely lower legs visible.

Eddie could tell that Waylon had been shaving them, though they had never talked about it after he had first mentioned it. The idea of Waylon shaving in the shower filled Eddie with a deep longing he refused to indulge. Finally, Eddie turned and met Waylon's eyes.

"I only want you to be happy. You can dress however you please," said Eddie.

Waylon smiled at the statement, and shook his head. "It's something to think about. I like this dress, so it's fine for today." Waylon chuckled as a look of childish delight spread across Eddie's face as he absorbed Waylon's statement.

"I don't deserve you, darling," said Eddie. It was undeniably the truth. "How do you feel about frozen custard?"

"I…I don't think I've ever had any before…wait, have I?" asked Waylon.

"It's richer than normal ice cream, you'll love it. What flavor do you prefer?"

"Uh…surprise me," said Waylon.

"Wait here. I'll be right back," said Eddie. He rushed into the tiny frozen custard shop next to the market.

They were a small, local operation that only carried three flavors on any given day. Eddie ordered two cones with the flavor of the day and waited patiently for his order. On his way out, Eddie had to push the door open with his shoulder as he carried a cone of custard in each hand. He had only managed a few steps outside when…

"Hey, you crazy bitch! Get off, that's mine!"

Eddie's head whipped around, and he noticed a man in a leather jacket rushing toward where a motorcycle was sitting. Already climbing onto the seat was none other than…

" **WAY**." Eddie rushed toward the motorcycle, though it was too late. The machine roared to life, and Waylon quickly put up his legs and tried out the controls. The machine lurched forward suddenly, and Eddie's heart stopped in his chest. He watched in horror as the motorcycle accelerated down the road, and directly over a large bump, causing it to go airborne for a fraction of a second.

The custard was forgotten and thrown over Eddie's shoulder as he dashed at full speed in the direction the motorcycle had gone. To his shock and horror, the machine decelerated and came to a complete, though shaky, stop. Eddie sprinted and reached the motorcycle in time to see Waylon turn it off and dismount, laughing.

"Did you see that?" asked Waylon. He could not stop the giggles bubbling forth.

"You bitch, trying to steal my motorcycle, why, I'll…" the motorcycle owner in his leather jacket was tall and intimidating.

"You'll do what?" asked Waylon, standing up taller in his flats and dress. He was no where near as tall as the man but soon Eddie was close behind him, looming over his shoulder. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm a black belt in karate."

"Darling," said Eddie, pulling at Waylon's arm, though he resisted.

"If I can ride a motorcycle without remembering, I can probably still do the karate too! It'll come to me, just how Jackie Chan taught me…"

"Is this some kind of fucking joke?" demanded the angry biker. "Is this a hidden camera show? Jackie Chan doesn't even _know_ karate, he does _kung fu._ "

Eddie pushed Waylon out of the way and leveled a murderous glare at the man. The biker quickly backed down under Eddie's blue gaze.

"There was no harm. Way was merely borrowing it, and he will not do that again. Isn't that right, darling?"

"I won't drive his motorcycle again, but I want to drive a motorcycle again! That was fun! I have never felt so…so alive. That I can remember, that is. You told me I was a daredevil, and I didn't believe you, but…that rush. That adrenaline! Oh, my hands are still shaking…what did he mean about Jackie Chan not knowing karate?"

Eddie rushed to put an arm around Waylon and pulled him close, his arms using enough force to almost crush the other man. "I'm sure it's a very common name, probably a different Jackie Chan. I was so worried about you, darling."

"Really? How did you ever cope then, when I was doing jumps over cars and stuff?" asked Waylon.

"I…I didn't. It killed me every time I had to watch you in danger," said Eddie.

"Then, why did I continue to do it?" asked Waylon. He lifted one of his hands and cupped Eddie's cheek. "I wouldn't want to hurt you."

Waylon was close—too close. Both of them were flushed with hearts racing and emotions high. Eddie licked his lips. He was suddenly thinking about something he had never intended. Something common for married people, but not common for two perfect strangers—two enemies.

He wanted Waylon. Somehow, his plan had backfired, and now he was holding Waylon and fighting every cell in his body that wanted to devour him whole, right there in the middle of the Leadville shopping district. The new feeling was completely foreign to Eddie.

"You ever touch my bike again…"

"You should be honored," said Waylon, laughing as he proclaimed, "your bike was ridden by _the_ Wayde Gluskin: _Daredevil_!"

"No, no, threats won't be necessary," said Eddie, grabbing Waylon's hand and leading him back toward the truck. "We won't be bothering you again. Have a great day."

They walked in silence. The tension was new, and it was uncomfortable. Both men seemed intent on studying the direction the clouds were moving across the sky. It was preferable to dwelling on what exactly was going on between them.

Back at the house, Eddie watched as Waylon attempted to teach the dogs how to shake hands. Stinky was a natural. Sebastian and Biter were not as quick. Once Waylon was out of bacon, he wiped off his hands, and pet the dogs each, equally, before sitting on the couch.

Eddie paced the living room instead of sitting in his usual chair. He carefully claimed a seat beside Waylon on the sofa. He noticed the way Waylon immediately tensed and looked at him.

"Darling…I have been meaning to ask you," said Eddie, trailing off as he searched for the right words.

"Yes?"

"Are you having, well, are you remembering anything about your, uh, life before?" asked Eddie.

"No," said Waylon, frowning. He stared down at his hands which were suddenly restless in his lap. "I mean, I don't know." Waylon paused to take a breath. "Sometimes, I feel… _something_ …for you. And I wonder if I'm not, maybe, remembering, in some way, that we were together. I catch glimpses of why I would have married you."

The short distance between them on the couch was suddenly dangerous. Eddie had to swallow to wet his dry throat as he turned his head and saw Waylon staring at him. "You…" started Eddie, though he quickly dropped the question. Did Waylon mean he had fond feelings? Or was it more friendship? It was pointless to have him clarify in the end. It wouldn't matter in a few weeks, at most.

"Other than…that, nothing?" asked Eddie, feeling his blood pressure increase despite his attempts not to dwell on Waylon's words.

"No," said Waylon. Eddie risked another glance and saw that Waylon was staring at his lap. His cheeks were a rosy flush, and he bit at his bottom lip. It was quite possibly the most alluring thing Eddie had ever seen in his life. Eddie forgot to breathe for a moment too long.

"Well," said Eddie, standing up from the sofa. "Long day at the shop, tomorrow. Three appointments. We should get some sleep."

"Yes," whispered Waylon.

Eddie left him alone in the living room, and returned to his own bed. The dogs followed him as well. He took off his shirt and prepared to sleep, but his thoughts were troubled. There was only one thought ringing through his mind.

 _Tell him._

Eddie needed to tell Waylon the truth. Soon. Eddie decided that he would make a call to Lisa in the morning. He still had all of Lisa and Waylon's wedding information in his customer files—along with the sizable bill they refused to pay. In the morning, he would make it right.

Just as Eddie had made up his mind, he was distracted by a noise coming from the paper thin wall separating his bedroom from the living room. At first, he worried that Waylon was crying. Eddie had been forced to listen to him cry himself to sleep every night during the first week. Waylon had not cried in some time, and Eddie found himself trying to count the days since Waylon had moved into his home.

A soft moan completely derailed his musings. Eddie's eyes went wide and he stared at the shared wall in horror. What exactly was Waylon doing on the other side of that wall?

Another moan. Shit. Eddie was torn between covering his ears and moving to press his cheek against the wall. His emotions were at war as he held his breath in order to hear better.

A shuffling of cloth. A ragged breath. The creaking of the sofa cushions. A soft gasp. An uncontrollable moan. And then… "Eddie."

All of Eddie's attempts to keep his arousal in check disappeared in that moment. He thrust his hand down his roomy pajama pants. He felt ashamed, but the feeling was overshadowed by the growing need. He had never had consensual sex with a man, and he had not been with a woman in over ten years. How was it that this man in the next room suddenly made him feel helpless to resist the urge to rush to the living room and pleasure him all night long.

He wanted to touch Waylon. He thought about it, as he touched himself. His brain created a picture of Waylon on the couch, nightgown hiked up, on his back with his knees raised. Did he use one hand, or two? Perhaps one to softly fondle his balls, and press lower. Waylon was moaning his name. What would he do if Eddie were to walk into the living room in that moment? Did Waylon want Eddie to touch him? Enter him—to make love to him? Did Eddie want that? The thought alone brought Eddie to the edge, though he a held back. He wanted to savor, listen, and learn.

After a few minutes, Waylon's breathing was heavy, each breath audible through the joint wall. And then: " _Nnng_."

The only thing Eddie wanted in that moment was to replay that sound; to watch it live. The thought made it necessary for him to hold his hand over his cock to contain the mess. And even as he stroked out the last straggling drops, he wanted more. He wanted to make a mess of Waylon. Would he be there, panting, sullied by his own seed? What would happen if Eddie pretended to get up for a cup of water? Would he find Waylon there, lips parted and eyes glazed.

Eddie was still catching his breath when he heard the couch squeak, followed by footsteps headed toward the bathroom, visible from both rooms. Eddie quickly wiped his hand on his pajama pants and rolled to face the opposite wall. He feigned sleep, though his entire body was tense, and his ears strained to hear even the slightest noise from the hallway.

Waylon's steps paused outside of the bedroom door. Eddie panicked, trying to decide what to do if Waylon attempted to come into his bedroom. He wanted to invite him in. He needed to keep him out. Eddie did not have to make a decision because Waylon whispered in the dark, "Goodnight, Eddie," before walking into the bathroom, and shutting the door.

It took hours for Eddie to fall asleep, constantly debating with himself whether Waylon had been able to hear his own transgressions through the wall.


	5. Chapter 5: Precious Moments

**Chapter 5: Precious Moments**

The next day, Eddie forewent his usual time with the boys in order to get into the shop at the same time as Waylon. Waylon's dress that day was gray with a cinched waist that made him look curvy. Sumptuous.

Eddie was acutely aware of his own actions. He worked to keep his mannerisms normal, treating Waylon the same as always. Were Waylon's long gazes intentional, accidental, or completely imaginary? Eddie was most definitely staring. He needed to escape Waylon's sight in order to do some important research.

Eventually, Waylon went back into the sewing studio to deal with a new shipment of fabric. Eddie jumped to check his hand-written files stored behind the counter. He found one for Ms. Lisa White, and quickly copied down the contact information. He went into the backroom with the number burning a hole in his pocket.

He spared one last, lingering gaze at Waylon, concentrating on a stack of fabrics. Waylon's hair was free of any headbands that day. His blond hair had gotten longer in the few weeks since his arrival. Eddie resisted the urge to reach out and touch. He made a quick excuse and hurried to the Shack.

When Eddie arrived, Frank and Dennis were relaxing in their usual spot.

"Give me your phone," said Eddie to Dennis. He held out his hand, expectantly.

"No," said Dennis, glancing up from the screen for a moment to cock an eyebrow at Eddie.

"I need to make an important call," said Eddie.

"I'd let you borrow my phone, if I had one, man," said Frank.

"Who are you needing to call so bad you can't call from your own phone?" asked Dennis. Both men seemed to zero in on Eddie's serious expression.

"I have the number of Way's fiancee. I am going to call her, to let her know that Waylon is here. I have to stop this," said Eddie.

Dennis gave a low whistle and Frank's mouth hung open. The cell phone was slid across the table. Eddie sat down and picked it up, quickly punching in the number. He waited, shaking his leg, as the dial tone played in his ear.

An obnoxious giggle blared over the ear piece. "Hello?"

"Yes, hello. Is this Miss Lisa White?" asked Eddie.

"Uh…yes," Lisa managed to say, before devolving back into giggles. "Stop!"

"I'm sorry?" asked Eddie.

"Oh, not you…w-wait, who is this, again?" asked Lisa.

"I'm calling because I have information about the whereabouts of Waylon Park," said Eddie. He frowned and stared sadly at the red-and-white checkered table cloth.

"Oh, Waylon? He's not here right now. He's…busy," said Lisa.

"Busy?" asked Eddie, scoffing into the phone. "He's missing. Have you not been searching for him?"

"Searching…what? No. Waylon…he is going through some personal stuff right now. He's off on a sabbatical…"

"What about your impending wedding?"

"Wait, how do you…" Lisa once again burst into giggles and gasps. "Would you _stop it_? Someone's asking about Waylon."

"I'm not asking about Waylon. I'm saying I have information on where he is, _right now_." There was the sound of some kind of adjustment before a deep male voice came over the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes, I am calling because I have information on the whereabouts of Waylon Park. I believe he's been missing," said Eddie.

"Look. You're calling for some kind of reward? You can tell Waylon we're not speaking with him until it's face to face. You think we'll pay to drag him back? We're not interested. Wherever he ran, he can stay there."

"Jeremy," came Lisa's voice from the background. "What if there's been an accident! At least ask if Waylon is alright…"

"Is Waylon dead or dying?" asked Jeremy.

"No," said Eddie, setting his jaw stubbornly.

"Then don't call here again, fucko."

 _Beep_.

Eddie sat still, holding the phone to his ear for several heartbeats, before he lowered the phone and slid it back to Dennis.

"Well? What the hell was that?" asked Dennis.

"She…she doesn't care that he's gone. She was with a man. He told me, they…they don't care where Waylon is. I, just…I don't understand…"

"That's cold, man," said Frank, shaking his head. "Cold. Why would someone throw away such a nice guy like Way?"

Eddie could not help but agree as he thought about Waylon in his delicate dresses, smiling sweetly.

"Wait, what brought this on so suddenly?" asked Dennis. "Why are you trying to get rid of Way?"

"I just…I…" Eddie shook his head, unable to find the words. "I'm starting to like him, too much. Everything feels wrong. I thought I could call Lisa, and finally put an end to this farce. I felt certain she would come and collect him immediately. Maybe I could speak with him after she told him the situation."

"Because you like him too much? The bastard who almost bankrupted your business, and pissed you off so badly you went so far as to kidnap him?" asked Dennis.

"Kidnapping?" asked Eddie, his voice suddenly octaves higher. "Is this kidnapping?"

"I don't know, someone could argue, I suppose," said Dennis, shaking his head. "It's not important. What _is_ important is that you guys don't know this guy. But even without knowing him, this bitch is awful. No one deserves that kind of shit."

"Poor Way," said Frank, sighing. "What did he do to lose his memories, I wonder? Maybe that woman had something to do with it. Maybe she tried to off him and make off with his money."

"Look, no conspiracy theories right now," said Dennis, glaring at Frank.

"Hear me out," said Frank, holding up his hands for effect. "She's with another fella, she doesn't care where Way disappeared to—she premeditated the whole thing! Maybe she was trying to murder him, but he ended up losing his memories instead." Frank slapped the table for effect.

"Maybe keeping him away from her is the best course of action, until we have more information?" asked Eddie. He glanced around the table at his friends, a glimmer of hope igniting in his eyes.

Dennis shrugged; Frank nodded his head vigorously.

"Then it's settled," said Eddie, "Way stays with me. At least a while longer."

"His memory should come back any minute," said Dennis. "So please, remember my advice—don't fuck him. You're making me nervous with all of this, 'liking him too much,' bullshit."

"I know," said Eddie, his chair scratching the floor as he pushed back violently. He returned to the shop, torn between anger at Lisa for being a heartless bitch, and happiness that Waylon was staying. A little guilt was worth having Waylon in his life, even if it was only temporary.

* * *

The days settled into a comfortable routine. Eddie and Waylon worked, side-by-side, at the shop. There was an increase in innocent touches. They sat with their legs touching as they ate their dinners together on the couch. Waylon wiping away sauce from Eddie's lips. Eddie pushing Waylon's hair behind his ear when he was looking down at fabric samples. Waylon resting his head on Eddie's shoulder as they watched television. Eddie covering Waylon's hand with his own as they sat eating at the Shack together with the crew.

The secret smiles Eddie caught—he no longer doubted that they were reality. It became obvious to everyone that Waylon was interested in him. Probably Waylon saw no reason to dial it back, considering he believed they were married. The line of what was appropriate was almost crossed when Waylon withdrew his hand from beneath Eddie's on the table, and rested his palm on Eddie's thigh. There was nothing innocent about the touch, and Eddie had to focus to remember how to breathe as he politely removed Waylon's hand.

But then something changed that Friday. The warmth that had appeared so suddenly, faded just as quickly. Eddie woke to find Waylon already dressed and bright-eyed. He wore a blue-and-white plaid dress with a sweetheart neckline. His blond hair was brushed and shining as he blushed and approached Eddie. He seemed to be waiting for something all through their morning meal. It left Eddie feeling uneasy.

After breakfast, Eddie drove them to the shop, the same as usual. Instead of flirting and chatting, there was a strange, uneasy silence about the shop.

"Darling, is something the matter?" Eddie asked when Waylon walked through the main area without so much as acknowledging his pleasantries. He began to wonder if perhaps some of Waylon's memory had returned. Was he upset?

Waylon sighed and his shoulders drooped forward. "Sorry. It's just…you know." He paused and Eddie waited, his eyes shifting back and forth as he realized Waylon was waiting for some type of response from him. When none came, Waylon sighed. "It's my birthday, today."

Eddie's brain buzzed and whirred, but produced no answers. What birthday was Waylon referring to? "Are you trying to tell me that, some part of your memory has returned, and you remember that today is your birthday?

"What? Oh, no, dork," said Waylon, chuckling softly. He walked over to where Eddie was standing, befuddled. "I saw it on my driver's license. What, you were trying to ignore my birthday, because you thought I wouldn't remember? You thought I wouldn't know it was my own damn birthday, and you could get out of celebrating?"

"Oh, no! Darling! It's a, uh, rule," said Eddie, smiling at Waylon. "Before you lost your memory, you always insisted that everyone ignore your birthday. You were completely against growing older, or celebrating the aging process. It's grown so ingrained in my attitude that I hardly recognize your birthday on the calendar anymore. It's just another day—as you requested."

"Oh," said Waylon, frowning. "I didn't know. I feel like…I just don't remember. Oh well. It's not important really."

Eddie recognized some of the sadness that had been missing in the past weeks. Waylon seemed to be moving on with his life, and enjoying himself, but the reminders of just how much he had lost brought back a sorrowful expression that broke Eddie's heart.

Eddie gave Waylon's shoulders a squeeze and smiled again. "I have to run to the Shack, Dennis has some emergency. I'll be right back."

* * *

"Why the hell did you make it so soon," said Eddie, pacing back and forth as Dennis covered his mouth and laughed.

"You forgot your own husband's birthday? That's cold, man," said Frank.

"Look, I didn't pick it," said Dennis, staring calmly up at an angry Eddie. "My guy who makes the documents, he just uses some random number generator to make the birthdays all unique and random. It was the luck of the generator, bro."

"Great," said Eddie, pacing across the floor in the Shack, unable to sit still. "Now I'm in the doghouse."

"Wait, when there's three dogs living in the house with you, aren't you always in the doghouse?" asked Frank.

"Shut up," said Eddie, not bothering to look at Frank. Dennis snickered without looking up from his cell.

"It's not like the day is over," said Dennis, already typing something into his phone. "Use your brain. We can do this. I'm on it."

* * *

"I was thinking, why don't we go out to dinner?" asked Eddie as he locked up the door to the shop. Waylon paused in the middle of opening the truck door.

"We don't have to," said Waylon. "It's been a long day. I know you're tired. I have some hamburger I need to cook back at the house, anyways."

"Nonsense. You deserve a nice night out. You work so hard, darling," said Eddie, laying it on thick. Waylon tilted his head for a moment and finally shrugged.

"I guess it would be nice to have a night off from cooking."

Eddie started up the truck and drove the short distance to the Rib Shack. He noticed Waylon's sad sigh as they pulled into the parking lot. "Is something the matter?"

"Oh. No. The Rib Shack has good food. I just thought, maybe, we could go somewhere different, somewhere special since…it's not important," said Waylon. Eddie frowned at Waylon after he parked the truck. He leaned over and used one finger to tilt Waylon's face toward his own.

"I'm sorry if it isn't exactly what you wanted today, darling. But I hope I can make it up to you inside. Anything you want," said Eddie, smiling. Waylon sighed and put on a small smile, nodding.

"Sure," he said, opening his own door. The pair walked up to the restaurant, the usual classic country audible through the walls and flood lights illuminating the dark parking lot. When they reached the doors, Eddie slid his arm around Waylon, and pushed the door open, leading him through. They were met by a roar.

" _Surprise_!"

Waylon jumped like a startled cat, and clung to Eddie as though he were a human scratching post. Eddie laughed at the horrified expression on Waylon's face. Waylon looked around with wide, brown eyes. He turned and looked up at Eddie's smug, smiling face in disbelief. "For…for me?"

"Of course, darling," said Eddie, chuckling. "You bought that line about us never celebrating your birthday? Really, now…"

Waylon opened his mouth, and then closed it, frowning. He glanced around at the people and gave a sheepish smile, waving his hand toward the crowd. The room was filled with the sounds of cheering, laughing, and whistling.

Eddie led Waylon to a large table where the guys were waiting with a huge spread including every different type of meat prepared at the Rib Shack. "Pam is gifting the food. She's always been fond of you. Most of the others are here for happy hour."

Waylon sat down between Eddie and Dennis, with Frank constantly leaning across Dennis' lap to insert himself into the conversation. The guys asked to hear about the motorcycle escapade from Waylon's own mouth, and he was happy to retell the story. Everyone laughed at how proud he was of his daredevil status. Dennis shook his head, grinning at Eddie's throughout the story. Eddie met his gaze with a flat stare. Soon, everyone was full of cheap beer and barbecue.

"Alright, it's time to sing happy birthday," said Eddie, calling attention of everyone in the Shack. Most people raised a beer and cheered, lending a small amount of attention toward the table in the back. "Frank, where's the cake?" asked Eddie, leaning over to his friend.

"Oh yeah!" said Frank, opening a bag and pulling out several foil wrapped packages. Eddie frowned and carefully unwrapped one. It as a gooey, chocolate brownie.

"A birthday brownie? Frank, are you an imbecile? I told you to bake a cake," said Eddie, keeping a false smile on his face to hide his annoyance from the crowd.

"This is much better than a cake, man. Special recipe," said Frank, punctuating the sentence with a very obvious wink. Eddie muttered to himself as he grabbed one of the brownies, unwrapped it, and shoved a candle in it. Frank dutifully lit it with a lighter.

"Here we go, Haaaaa…" Eddie led the singing, which Waylon found hilarious. His face was flushed from the beer, and he could not stop giggling as the entire crowd held out the last 'you' much longer than necessary. Soon, he was leaning forward and blowing out the candle. Everyone clapped and cheered. Waylon brought the brownie to his lips, but Eddie smacked it out of his hand. "Don't eat the brownies."

Waylon gave a confused look before shrugging. "Thank you," he said, though it was difficult to hear over all of the shouting in the Shack.

Waylon shook his head and grinned as a package was thrust into his hands. He looked at the large, white box with a red, satin ribbon, and wrinkled up his nose as he read the tag.

" _To: My Darling Husband From: Eddie_." Waylon canted his eyes up, still holding the gift tag in his hand. "You bought me something?"

Eddie had to divert his eyes as Waylon untied the ribbon and opened the box. It was difficult not to feel guilty considering how truly happy Waylon seemed. Every person who knew Eddie's terrible sin was present to witness his guilt, and Waylon's pure joy at having a birthday party thrown by Eddie and the gang. He felt lower than low when Waylon lifted a dress from the box and squealed with delight.

"It's perfect! Eddie, it's beautiful! Is this vintage?"

"It belonged to my mother. I tailored it to fit you," said Eddie, leaning close where only Waylon could hear. When their eyes met, Waylon's were bright with tears.

"Thank you," he said, holding the dress up to his body. It was cut straight across the neckline, cinched at the waist and flared out into a beautiful A-line skirt. The fabric was lipstick red with black piping around the edges. The dress felt heavy and well-made. Waylon could not stop admiring it and holding it up to the light. "It's perfect."

Eddie watched in worry as the night wore on. Frank and a group of women had eaten far too many brownies. Dennis was flirting with the girl who worked at the local convenient store. Pamela was working up a sweat serving half-priced drinks.

Waylon had clearly indulged in too much beer as his eyes were unfocused and his face a constant flush. When Eddie caught Waylon staring at him, his lopsided grin widened and he bit his lower lip. Eddie's stomach flipped. That could be a problem.

It was growing late. Eddie signaled to Pamela who alerted everyone that the party was coming to an end, but there was one final surprise outside. Waylon's mouth dropped as he stared, bleary eyed, toward the door.

A small crowd of interested party attendants surged to the door. Eddie rushed to catch up to Waylon, offering him an arm to help keep him steady. They walked out the door in the midst of the crowd.

The group was silenced by a loud, ripping growl that tore through the night, originating from a dented old motorcycle. Dennis was sitting atop the machine, revving the engine from the handle. Although it could start, the bike itself looked unusable and in need of substantial repairs.

Waylon dropped Eddie's hand before his own flew to his face. "No way!"

"Yes, Way," said Eddie, chuckling. "This is yours."

"Oh God! I want to drive it," said Waylon, clapping his hands with glee.

"No," said a group of people closest, causing Waylon to collapse against Eddie's side, laughing so hard it came out as silent, gasping noises.

"It needs a substantial amount of repairs. Luckily, Dennis has offered to help us. We'll get you riding again in no time," said Eddie.

"I've worked on enough motorcycles to help fix it up. I used to be a mechanic," said Dennis, rejoining the group with a proud grin.

"An ex-astronaut, ex-mechanic Mayor? Is there anything you can't do?" asked Waylon, staring at Dennis in awe. Dennis' face turned crimson, and not from the drinking.

"You told me you worked over at the car wash," said the convenient store cashier Dennis had been talking to all night.

"You see, the thing about that is…yes, I have many jobs, and…" Dennis was flailing.

"He's just that amazing," said Frank, before laughing and pointing at Dennis' speechless expression.

"It's perfect," said Waylon, sliding both of his hands around Eddie's neck. "Everything is perfect." Without warning, he pulled Eddie's head down toward him and forced their lips to meet in a closed mouth kiss.

Eddie's eyes flew open and he felt his cheeks burn. Their lips were still connected when he shifted his gaze to see the shocked expressions of his two friends. Eddie attempted to untangle himself from Waylon's arms and lips, but there was no resisting, and truthfully, Eddie did not want the contact to end. It took all of his willpower to keep his hands at his side, and his lips pressed into a hard line. The kiss finally broke, and Waylon smiled up at him, eyes heavily lidded.

"It's late, darling. We should get home. Dennis is bringing the bike back to his garage. We can visit soon to check on the progress," said Eddie, fighting to keep his voice steady. Eddie needed to clear his throat, and his thoughts.

"Oh, don't forget my present!" said Frank.

"No one wants any of your brownies, Frank…" said Eddie.

"No, man, I put them in the back of your truck," said Frank.

Eddie assisted Waylon as he swayed on his feet while walking to the truck. In the truck bed, someone had placed three plats of multicolored pansies. Waylon's eyes went wide. "For my garden! Oh, really! Frank! You are amazing," said Waylon, drawing out the word as he practically fell onto Frank, forcing a tight hug on him.

"Hey, you're welcome," said Frank, happily accepting the hug. "I've never seen Eddie so happy as he has been with you in his life. I hope you plant them, and that they make you both even happier."

"That's...quite nice. Thank you," said Eddie, clapping Frank on the shoulder as he helped Waylon stand-up straight. Perhaps his good mood over the past weeks had been more noticeable than Eddie realized.

"I got a present, too," said Dennis, producing a small gift bag with a spattering of tissue paper showing over the top. Eddie raised an eyebrow at his friend, but Dennis only smirked in return. Waylon tore away the tissue paper and pulled out two items, a strange look on his face.

"Personal lubricant…ribbed, for her pleasure…"

"Ah, yes, thank you, Dennis," said Eddie before adding, under his breath, "…you son of a bitch."

Dennis laughed and Frank's eyebrows shot up his forehead as he realized exactly what was in the gift bag. Eddie pushed the items back down into the bag and steered Waylon by his elbow toward the passenger side of the truck. "Thank you, everyone. This has been a spectacular party. Thank you all for making it so memorable."

"Yes," said Waylon, leaning out the window and smiling. "This is an event I _definitely_ will never forget."

Eddie and his friends exchanged knowing glances at Waylon's wording before shrugging. The drive home was filled with Waylon switching through all of the radio stations and blaring out the wrong words in the wrong key. He practically fell out of the truck into Eddie's arms when they arrived at the house.

Waylon clung to Eddie as they waited for the door to open. Once inside, Eddie led Waylon toward the couch, avoiding the excited greetings from the dogs. It was pitch dark in the living room, and Eddie could not reach the switch with Waylon gripping him so tightly.

"That was the best birthday I can remember," whispered Waylon in the darkness, pulling Eddie closer until their bodies were touching. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but there was a smile in his tone.

"Darling, you can't remember any previous birthdays. I don't believe you are in any place to make such a judgement. There were surely better ones…"

"I don't care. This one was perfect. I'm glad you brought up the memory thing, though, because I have been thinking…"

"Some of your memories are returning?" asked Eddie, eyes going wide in the darkness.

"No," whispered Waylon, "but I have been thinking…maybe Long Dong Johnson could jump-start my memory."

A warm hand reached between their bodies and pushed its way toward Eddie's crotch. Eddie jumped as though touched by fire when that seeking hand groped him over his clothes.

"Darling! What are you…you have to behave…"

"Why not?" asked Waylon, slurring slightly.

"I…you've lost your memory. It would not feel right. I could not take advantage of you. Especially not right now, when you've had so much to drink. The first time together should come…when you're sober…after you remember…"

Even as he said the words, he knew in his heart, that once all of those criteria were met, Waylon would never speak to him again, let alone seek him out for physical comfort.

It was difficult, arguing against something he knew he wanted—badly. Eddie knew the mechanics of sex with a man, but he had never initiated anything like it on purpose. He did not want to imagine doing those painful things to Waylon. He had spent so many years, sexless and content. Of course his body would respond to the last person on earth he should find attractive.

He maneuvered Waylon onto the couch and helped him remove his shoes while he giggled and fluffed his pillow. The entire idea seemed to float out of his drunken mind as quickly as it had entered. Eddie gently tucked him in, leaning down to place the lightest kiss on Waylon's forehead.

"Goodnight, darling," whispered Eddie. He paused on the way to his bedroom, hearing the whining from the dogs already in bed. From his bed, he could hear Waylon's drunken snoring through the wall while he lie there, sleepless. He stared at the ceiling, trying to convince himself there was nothing wrong with inviting Waylon into his bed.

It was wrong, and he knew it


	6. Chapter 6: Painful Reflection

**Chapter 6: Painful Reflection**

Eddie allowed Waylon to take the next day off to nurse a terrible hangover. It had been difficult to leave him behind in the house looking so pitiful when everything about Eddie wanted to stay home and care for him.

Waylon felt much better by Sunday. Eddie came home with sandwiches and found Waylon digging away in the flower bed. He had planted the pansies Frank had gifted him next to the door in the previously empty beds. Waylon was wearing jeans and a light purple blouse. It was the first time Eddie had seen him wear something other than a dress or nightgown since he had come to stay at the house.

Waylon was very masculine, despite having his legs and face shaved and wearing garments traditionally associated with women. His blond hair was pulled back into the world's smallest ponytail. It made Eddie smile to see it. He couldn't resist walking up and petting Waylon's hair, flicking the ponytail with his finger.

"Hey!" said Waylon, grinning. "Thanks for lunch. I'm just about done."

"We can eat out here," said Eddie, plopping down on the dusty ground near the flower bed. He opened up the sandwiches and offered one to Waylon. He had to pause and remove the ancient gardening gloves he had found before accepting the sandwich. The pair sat eating in companionable silence for several moments, enjoying the weather. It was a crisp spring day where the sun was warm, but the breeze was cool. There was a perfect view of Mount Massive in the distance.

The dog trio wandered up and a simple hand gesture from Waylon commanded them to sit. They obediently stayed put, and refrained from bothering either man while they ate. Eddie frowned at his dogs.

"How did you learn to do that?" asked Eddie.

"What?" asked Waylon, wiping mayonnaise away from his mouth with one hand.

"How did you train the dogs. They hardly ever listen to me unless I'm yelling…"

"I don't know," said Waylon, scratching his head. "It's rather odd that it came so naturally to me, considering they've been my dogs since they were puppies, right?" Eddie shrugged with his mouth full of sandwich. "So why did I never train them before?" Eddie stared at the ground, offering no answer.

"I've been thinking lately-I even walked down to the library to do some research. Maybe something else happened to me. Maybe my accident didn't just erase my memory. Maybe it gave me a whole new personality, as well. In the library, I found a story where one man became a famous painter after experiencing a head injury. Maybe I became a dog whisperer?"

Eddie hummed, tilting his head. "It's a mystery."

"Maybe we should go back and see the doctor?" asked Waylon.

"Why? Do you feel ill?"

"No. But I still don't remember anything. Wouldn't they be interested in something like that? Maybe they have other things we could try?"

"Possibly. Unfortunately, darling, we do not have insurance," said Eddie, sighing. "Any medical bills could be devastating to us right now."

"Why?" asked Waylon, narrowing his eyes. "The shop has steady business. We're very busy. How is there any danger?"

"Oh," said Eddie, swallowing before clearing his throat. "Well, about that. Before your accident, we had an unfortunate incident. There was a customer. A bride-to-be. She signed a contract for me…or us, rather…to design eight bridesmaid dresses. She had a designer wedding gown that needed fitting, as well. It was so much work I…we, rather…had to turn down several other commissions. I worked nonstop for the better part of a month, sewing the gowns from expensive fabric with hand beading and details, real Swarovski Crystal elements…it was a very expensive job. We were set to make over ten thousand dollars on this one commission."

"That would be bigger than anything I've seen since I could remember," said Waylon.

"Indeed. It was our largest contract to date, actually. I was greedy. I admit. I wanted the large pay off. I had plans for the money. I was saving up for something special. But then, when the customer came to inspect the dresses, she claimed she hated the color. She didn't want them, and refused to pay. She convinced her dickless fiance to stand up to me. He threatened to litigate if we attempted to collect. I had to let them walk. After all the money I had sunk, and commissions I had turned down, I was worried about affording food, not to mention paying rent."

"What a couple of assholes," said Waylon, his brown eyes narrowed and dark. "I hope you at least let them have it."

"Oh," said Eddie, feeling the anger from reminiscing about the event draining from his body as he stared at Waylon's indignant face. It was quite possibly the cutest thing he had ever seen. "The revenge was not all I expected. I regret it now. But it's too late. I can't go back on everything that's happened without, hurting someone innocent…someone with a good heart."

"Yeah, right, sounds like a couple of rotten bastards to me," muttered Waylon.

Eddie couldn't stop the way he reached out and ruffled Waylon's hair, disrupting the tiny ponytail. " _Shhh_ , being cruel doesn't become you. You're kind hearted. You would likely disagree with the steps I took. And I would work the rest of my life trying to earn back the way you are looking at me right now."

It was an intense look they shared in the garden. Waylon's adoring brown eyes locked with Eddie's sad blues. Waylon's eyes were so dilated they almost appeared black, and Eddie could not keep himself from glancing down when Waylon's tongue peeked out to wet his lips. Eddie started to lean forward before he remembered where he was—and who he was with.

Who was Waylon at that time, anyways? The asshole fiance pushed around by his controlling bride? The clueless boob Eddie had taken advantage of in some form of petty revenge? The kindhearted man that brought laughter and light to Eddie's days. The friend. The schmuck. The business partner. A motorcycle driving, gardening, cooking, dress-wearing man with a heart or gold, or a poor, lost soul being abused by a cruel-hearted, bitter man.

Eddie stood up and walked into the house without so much as finishing the conversation. Waylon stared after him, but made no move to follow. He looked confused, and the look was too similar to the horrible, questioning way he had looked at everything the first few weeks. The way he had cried himself to sleep and tried, against all hope, to decipher who he was. If he had no idea, how could Eddie hope to find out?

Later, over dinner, Waylon brought the subject back up. "I can tell that you are upset, speaking about the customer situation earlier, and the financial problems. But I am curious, what is it that you were saving up for?"

Eddie finished chewing, mulling over his answer in his mind. He could find no reason not to confide in Waylon. "There is a competition, each year, in Denver. They award a half a million dollars to the wedding gown design that wins the overall prize, but there are other prizes as well, for all different categories. I'm confident I could win something."

"The smallest prize is twenty-thousand dollars," Eddie continued. "So even if I invest a large amount of money and time in the project, I would come out ahead. Not to mention the prestige, the exposure, and a guaranteed puff piece in _Modern Bride_ magazine. It's a great opportunity. I've wanted to enter since I took over the shop, after mother passed, but the money was never there. I keep telling myself…next year… _this_ will be the one…if I just work a little bit harder. But it never happens. I fear I'll never get there."

Eddie sighed, staring at his half-eaten dinner—his appetite having vanished. There was a long stretch of silence before Waylon spoke up. "I know where we can get some money." Eddie raised an eyebrow as he turned his head. Waylon's face was deadly serious.

"You…you have some memory of…of having money?" asked Eddie, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

"No," said Waylon, frowning, "but I do have an idea. The shop…it could generate more customers if we had more advertising. This competition sounds like it would be perfect for generating more traffic. We need a website—we should be easier to locate. The shop could use a new coat of paint, and some new carpet, and a fresh design for the outside of the shop, a sign with a nice logo…"

"Darling," said Eddie, chuckling to himself. "These are all very good ideas. They could generate more cash by bringing in new customers. The problem is, you need money to make money, that's how the saying goes, I believe? No, I'm afraid we would need money…"

"How attached are you, exactly, to all of this junk," asked Waylon, waving his hand around to indicate the boxes stacked along the walls of the living room.

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it, his forehead creasing.

"Because," said Waylon, pushing forward, "I have gone through this house now a few dozen times. There are antiques, and trinkets, and fine china, and vintage children's clothing…the strangest collection of items. But they are probably worth something. Definitely. Even with the camera on a regular phone, we could take the pictures, put the items for sale. I wouldn't even need to sell all of it—just enough. Enough that we could finance what we need. Then you could keep the rest."

Eddie's face was blank as he listened to Waylon, unsure how to respond.

"Memory loss wasn't the only thing I was researching in the library," said Waylon, blushing when Eddie turned to stare at him in disbelief. "I hope you don't mind, but I priced out some of the items and those old sewing machines, out in the yard?"

"They're ancient, and they don't work, haven't for years," said Eddie.

"I figured that. But just the parts alone! One museum in Utah is interested in one of those models, doesn't even need to be working. It's for a display, and…"

"How much?" asked Eddie, cutting Waylon off mid-sentence. "How much, just for the sewing machines?"

"I think we could get at least a thousand, maybe two, just from parts and the one museum. We could sell some of the other antiques at local shows, or over the Internet. As soon as we have enough money to cover our costs, we could stop…"

"Darling," Eddie leaned forward and kissed Waylon's mouth as he sat staring, confused. When they pulled apart, both men blushed deeply and avoided eye contact. "Uh, it's just to say, that…well…you're a pearl. That's a great idea. It's past time for us to clean out some of these treasures and cash them in. If it means entering in the Denver Bridal Showcase then…"

"I'll get started first thing on Monday," said Waylon, smiling.

* * *

Eddie went to the shop by himself on Monday, leaving Waylon to his task. It was strange, working alone. After just a few short weeks of having a business partner, Eddie had adjusted easily to sharing his workspace.

He missed the sound of Waylon meandering through the store, cleaning, humming, singing along with the radio. In the beginning, none of the old tunes had been familiar to Waylon, but soon he began to recognize some songs from hearing them repeatedly in the shop. He even started to sing along. He was absolutely horrible at singing, but Eddie thought it was charming.

He found himself staring at some handwritten notes of Waylon's. His handwriting was unruly chicken scratch compared to Eddie's perfect cursive. The simple grocery list caused Eddie to miss Waylon even more. He was relieved when he finished his work for the day. He drove straight home, instead of stopping at the Shack.

As soon as he walked through the door, Eddie was hit with a huge wave of wrongness. Something was out of place. Correction- _everything_ was out of place. Eddie felt his lungs seize.

"How was work today? Did you miss me?" asked Waylon.

"What the hell happened here…" growled Eddie. His blue eyes took on a predatory quality as he quickly glanced about the room.

"Oh, sorry, I am making a bit of a mess I suppose," said Waylon, chuckling nervously. "I wanted to run everything past you before I went ahead with the plan. These stacks are all ready, I just need your stamp of approval." Waylon paused and gave a tremulous smile. Eddie only scowled. Anger threatened to choke off any words he could muster, so he remained silent.

"This stack is items that I believe could sell very well. The middle stack if some clothing and other items that are too far damaged to be worth anything. I recommend we throw them out, if that's alright with you…"

Eddie ignored Waylon as he walked to the piles in the living room. Several empty boxes were upturned, and there were three stacks of treasures laid out neatly on the ground.

Eddie walked up to the first stack and knelt down, gently running his hand across beautiful painted porcelain plates and saucers, all in matching sets. His mother had collected them and displayed them in the dining room. How she had cried when his father would get angry and break one of her pieces. It was a frequent occurrence. Hence her constant drive to collect more, to find more, to replace what was lost. It was difficult to replace all of the items, but it was impossible to replace other things his father destroyed. Things that could never be restored.

She had put so much of herself into her collections. Could Eddie really sell them, just for some silly competition?

He shifted his attention to the middle stack and had to choke back a strange sob that trespassed into his throat. Lace tablecloths, hand crocheted doilies, and clothing. Some of the items had suffered from being stored improperly. There was discoloration on the white lace, rips and runs in the fabric, and some of the clothes showed signs of wear. They were likely not worth anything to anyone—except Eddie.

His hands shook as he picked up one soft, pink sweater. His mother had embroidered it herself with tiny purple and white flowers around the collar. Waylon had likely put them aside because of the stains—rust colored and faded. Stains from his mother's wounds after Eddie's father had beaten her bloody. Another common occurrence.

Eddie then glanced at the third stack where he saw a pair of small pearls laid out on top of a dainty, hand-carved jewelry box. "What is this stack?" asked Eddie, wincing in horror when his voice broke.

"I thought we should keep the most valuable items, since they seem sentimental to you," said Waylon.

Eddie took a step back and stared at the stacks of items. He tried to see them for what they were: stacks of things—possessions. Items that were old, faded, and only cluttering his life. Things—not people. His mother was buried and keeping her blood stained clothing would not bring her back. The items were the physical embodiment of memories he did not have the strength to purge from his house.

Then he saw it. Beside the jewelry box, in the stack to be kept, there was a thick leather belt with an intricately engraved silver belt buckle. It was suddenly too hot in the house. Eddie was still wearing his work finery, and he pulled at his tie, loosening it and unbuttoning a few buttons on his shirt.

"If there's something you want to keep, I understand, that's why I made the stacks…"

"Stop," said Eddie, the word as quiet and sharp as a knife stab in the dark.

"I'm sorry," said Waylon, the confused look back on his face, just like his first nights.

"Stop," said Eddie, louder. Waylon shook his head and held up his hands.

"I'm sorry. I'll stop, whatever it is, we don't have to sell anything, it was just an idea…" Waylon continued to prattle on but Eddie became aware of the sharp sting of saltwater in his eyes. He leaned down and snatched the blood-stained sweater and marched to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

What had he done? He had agreed to let Waylon sell some items, but he had imagined the old sewing machines, some of his mother's old porcelain collections. He had enough that he could lose half and still have too much. Eddie brought the old sweater up to his face and inhaled deeply. It smelled of mothballs and damp fabric. There was no trace of his mother's soft scent of lavender and Earl Gray tea. He pulled the sweater away and noticed it was wet. He wiped away tears before jumping up at the sound of the door opening.

"Get out," snapped Eddie.

"No," said Waylon, though it was said gently. He took a timid step toward where Eddie stood, clutching the sweater. "Before my accident I maybe understood your reaction, and wouldn't have gone through the boxes, but…I don't have any memory. I'm tired of apologizing for it. I'm not going to be able to understand until you _tell me_."

"It's none of your business…" said Eddie.

"It's not the business of your husband to know about the things filling our house? To know about my husband's past? Who owned that sweater? Did you have a woman before me, or was it…another…another man that wore women's clothing? Whatever it is, I can handle it."

Eddie clung to his anger. He glared and breathed quickly, desperate to keep his temper under control. And yet it all seemed to dissipate when a hand settled on his shoulder. He looked quickly and saw Waylon, staring at his face with a worried frown. Eddie turned away, hiding his face in shame.

"These things. All of them. They…they belonged to my mother. This was her house. I inherited her things. I have not really gone through any of the boxes. I just keep them here, as she had."

"You miss your mother?" asked Waylon.

"Very much," whispered Eddie.

Waylon hummed softly to himself. "I don't remember my mother. I suppose not having to remember is a blessing, to be able to forget the pain. I can't imagine it was a happy time when she was arrested and my father died. Though the sadness of not even knowing is also painful." Waylon leaned into Eddie, resting his head against his shoulder. "I'm here for you. You've been so strong for me during this difficult time. The least I can do is return the favor."

And if it was possible, Eddie felt even worse. He tossed the sweater softly onto his tidy bed and sighed. "I apologize, darling. I grew so accustomed to having these things nearby, even if I was not using them. I was comfortable, knowing they were there, in tact. But there's no reason to keep my mother's old clothing. And she had more teacups and saucers than a person had any right to own in a lifetime. This is for the best. It's just…"

"Difficult," said Waylon, frowning. "I did a little research about that at the library, as well. The hoarding…"

"I am not a hoarder," hissed Eddie.

"Well, not exactly, perhaps, but letting go of items, like you just said," Waylon said, wrapping both hands around Eddie's forearm and giving a reassuring squeeze. "They're just things. We can clean away the things, but the memories…" Waylon's sentence dropped away.

 _The memories remain_ , thought Eddie, _except when they don't._ The sorrowful expression on Waylon's face broke Eddie's heart. If Waylon could go on without any past or memories, Eddie could try to part with a few useless old things.

"Thank you, darling," said Eddie, putting one hand on top of Waylon's where they held his arm. "I apologize for the outburst. The belt may go in the throw-away pile."

"Are you sure? It looked expensive," said Waylon.

"It belonged to my father. Burn it, for all I care," said Eddie. He gently pried Waylon's fingers away and walked out of the bedroom and back out into the main living area. "Now, what's for dinner?"

* * *

Someone had been knocking, loud and constant, on the door to Waylon's apartment for over five minutes before the door finally opened. Lisa stood in the doorway, Egyptian cotton sheets wrapped around her like an elaborate toga.

"Listen, asshole," said Lisa, looking disgruntled. She glared when she recognized the person standing outside the door. "Oh, it's you."

"Who-is-it," mumbled an incoherent voice from within the apartment. Miles immediately attempted to peer past Lisa, into the apartment.

"Waylon?" asked Miles into the apartment.

"What are you doing here, Miles?" asked Lisa, using her bulky form to block Miles' view into the apartment.

"Is Waylon here?" asked Miles.

"You know he's not here," said Lisa, giving an aggravated groan.

"Then who did I just hear…"

"None of your business," snapped Lisa. Miles narrowed his gray eyes.

"Look, you're ignoring my calls, Waylon hasn't replied to any of my messages. I just got back in town, and I need to speak with him. Immediately."

"Haven't seen Waylon since the day we fought over the wedding location. He disappeared. Poof! Vanished. We had a disagreement about the dresses, the wedding location, his job…I came back separate, and he never returned. I tracked his cell phone and saw him in New York City of all places, before I lost the ability to track him. He made some hefty withdrawals from his savings account. Not activity for a week or so now. He's gone."

"You don't seem upset about this at all," said Miles, clenching his fists.

"I was worried sick the time he disappeared and turned up bragging about tackling the entire Appalachian Trail on a whim. I couldn't sleep for days when he left overseas without so much as a note left behind. He's been leaving for longer and longer amounts of time lately to avoid the stress of work. I'm tired of his disappearing act. He can stay gone for all I care."

"Who the fuck is it?" called a male voice from the bedroom.

"Just Miles," said Lisa, calling over her shoulder. She had to adjust her hold on the bed sheets to keep herself covered. Miles tried again to peek around her into the apartment. "Yeah, judge away. Whatever, Miles. Waylon and I have been having trouble for a while, and he's been gone for over a month…"

"Yeah, but you've been fucking Jeremy for six," said Miles.

"How do you…"

"I've been doing a little research when I couldn't reach Waylon. I called his office and a few people had no problem chatting about seeing you there, late nights, alone with Jeremy Blaire."

"Not like it matters now, does it?" asked Lisa, a lip curling up in disgust.

"Look. You don't seem to care that my best friend has vanished, so I'm having to do all of the work myself. Quite strange, isn't it, that he disappeared after you drove his car back to Denver? You've been using his credit cards like they're about to expire."

"Jeremy sent a company car to pick him up, Waylon was gone by the time it arrived," said Lisa.

"And what did you two do to try to find him?" asked Miles, indignant anger rising into his tone.

"He's a grown ass man. He probably doesn't want to be found."

"What. Did. You. Do."

"Nothing," said Lisa, with a shrug. "I don't know what you think you know, but…"

"I know that you've been sleeping with Jeremy. Meeting with him under the guise of 'wedding planning' since the engagement was announced. The fact that he was only initially interested in you as a way to cuckold his subordinate employee didn't seen to be a concern for you, it seems."

"Shove it, Miles. I was never sure about the wedding. You know I turned him down twice before agreeing. That's why I kept changing the location, the dresses, the date…I just wasn't sure I was ready," said Lisa.

"Then you shouldn't have been engaged if you were having doubts. You shouldn't have been fucking someone else while engaged to Waylon. You're all sorts of wrong. I just don't know how far you would go to be rid of him…"

"If you're trying to suggest I killed my ex-fiance, then you're wrong," said Lisa with a sneer.

"Who said he was your ex-fiance?" asked Miles, raising a thick brown eyebrow.

"Me! I waited for a couple weeks. Then my mind was made up for good. I was having doubts, and Waylon disappeared. Jeremy and I are an official couple, now. Waylon missed out. I don't know where he went, or why. And frankly, I don't care. He's not dead or dying."

"How do you know?"

"Someone called, like, a couple weeks after he left, and said they knew where Waylon was and that he wasn't in any danger."

"And you didn't get more information? Do you know the number?"

"It showed unknown on the phone, I don't know. The timing of the call was really bad, and like I mentioned, I'm planning on ending it completely when he shows back up so, let him stay away as long as he wants."

"Tell me everything about that last day," said Miles.

"I don't think so," said Lisa, scoffing as she started to shut the door in Miles' face. She was stopped by a strong arm against the door.

"Yes. Or I'll go to the police. Even if you are innocent, it'll look pretty bad, don't you think? Will Jeremy stay with you through something like that? I mean, he's all about appearances, and even the appearance of being suspected of foul play could hurt his reputation at Murkoff…"

Lisa snorted air out her nose like an enraged bull. "Fine. Look. We went to Leadville. He wanted to get married outside of the Leadville Mining Museum or some nonsense. It had a nice hiking trail and a gazebo overlooking Mount Massive. He was always so weird about hiking and he had calculated it to be close to the shop and…whatever. You know how detail oriented he always was. _Sooo_ annoying."

Miles glared at Lisa through the crack in the door until she sighed and continued. "Before that, we had gone into town to fire the tailor, some guy named...Glue-skin? Or was it Gluck-skin Bridal. He made my dresses this putrid color, completely wrong, and Waylon told him to go fuck himself. The guy was pretty upset about it, actually…"

"Wait, so right before Waylon vanished, he pissed off some tailor?" asked Miles, gray eyes narrowing.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," said Lisa.

"What did this Glue-skin look like?"

"Tall. Really tall. Probably like, six foot five or something. He was pretty muscular, too. Broad. Black hair in a slicked back undercut. He had a scary kind of face and really bright blue eyes. Not what you would expect from a tailor, really. Intimidating. He was pretty pissed about us stiffing him on the bill, considering it was going to be close to ten grand…"

"Okay, so this shop is in Leadville?" asked Miles.

"Yeah. Glue-skin Bridal, Leadville, Colorado," said Lisa.

"And you last saw Waylon?"

"On top of the hiking trail outside the Mining Museum, in Leadville, Colorado," said Lisa. Miles hummed quietly to himself. "Are you satisfied now, Mr. Reporter? Are you even working as a reporter yet? I thought you had some terrible editing job? Should you be taking notes or something? You are seriously bad at this job…"

"If I find out you had anything to do with Waylon's disappearance, you will regret the day you sat next to Waylon in introduction to sociology freshman year. There is no place on earth, or in hell, where you can hide from the pain and terror I will bring down on you, do you under…"

"Bye-bye, Miles!" said Lisa, slamming the door in his face. Miles had no choice but to storm away.

Miles pulled out his phone while waiting for the elevator. He would have to put in for some time off from his copy editor job. It wouldn't be easy, considering he had just come back from a month long personal trip researching a lead in the Middle East for a story. He needed to keep his job if he wanted to eat this month. But this was Waylon.

Miles and Waylon had been best friends since high school. There was no way he could allow him to vanish without a trace. It wouldn't be the first time he had run off on some last minute hike in some remote location with no cell phone reception. But this time it had gone on longer than usual. Miles was worried about his friend…even if his employer and ex-fiancee were not.

As soon as he could get away, Miles would be doing a little freelance investigating in Leadville. It was closer than New York.

* * *

A/N: I update this story every Tuesday! The story is completed and being posted as I edit it. I'm really glad some people are reading along, thanks for the encouraging words.


	7. Chapter 7: Relive

**Chapter 7: Relive**

Waylon proved more adept than Eddie would have imagined. It reminded him of how little he actually knew about Waylon Park.

He knew that Waylon had some amount of money, considering he was financing such an expensive wedding. He knew that he had _abysmal_ taste in women. And he could guess that he had terrible luck, or was completely ignorant, to have wound up in his current condition. Why had there been no identification? No clues for law enforcement? The entire ordeal was a mystery.

Waylon was lucky to have no other brain damage—though total memory loss was substantial damage in and of itself. By the end of the first month, Waylon's ankle, at least, seemed completely healed.

The speed with which Waylon was able to catalog, photograph, and sell Eddie's treasure was beyond impressive. Every night for over a week, Waylon read off the list of items he had put on the Internet that day, as well as what had sold, and for how much. Eddie no longer made a fuss about parting with items. He made peace with putting them to a better use, and moving on with his life.

They were nearing three thousand dollars in sales, after just cleaning out half of one room, and the sewing machines on the lawn. Eddie was delighted. That Friday, the first payment rolled in, and he rushed to deposit the money.

"We should first put the money into whatever you need for the dress competition. I looked online, and the deadline to join is by the end of this month, so we need you to complete the application. I've already printed it, and filled out what I knew, but I didn't remember all of your information, sorry. I know the memory thing is getting annoying, trust me…"

"You're not annoying," said Eddie, gently. Waylon gave a small cough before continuing with his report.

"Well, if we can submit the entrance fee of five hundred dollars, along with the application, we can use the rest of the money to buy whatever materials you need to get started. After the materials are paid, we should focus first on fixing up the shop. We'll start with the outside-we need it to look nice when we photograph it for the website and advertisements, _then_ we can focus on the inside, and…"

Eddie was hardly listening. His cheek was resting heavily against his hand, mushing up his face, with a dreamy smile across his lips. He resembled a cartoon character that had just been struck with one of Cupid's arrows. Waylon blushed and chuckled nervously under that gaze.

"Are you even listening, Eddie?" asked Waylon. Eddie's eyebrows raised as he hummed. "Something else on your mind?"

"Let's go out," said Eddie.

"Really? Now? But there's so much to do, and plan, and we really need to…"

"Go out. We really need to go out. We need to celebrate. This is a turning point for the business, for me—for _us_. I feel it. And I want to celebrate. Let's got to the Shack!"

"There are other restaurants in town, you know…"

"I want to go to the Rib Shack, eat cheap ribs, drink cheap beer, and tell the guys the great news," said Eddie, his face lighting up with childlike glee. "Let's go out. Come with me. Please?" Eddie made ridiculous puppy eyes at Waylon's skeptical stare until he had to grin and give in.

"Fine. But let me change. I've been going through boxes all afternoon, I'm covered with dust, and I look terrible…"

"You always look beautiful to me," said Eddie, reaching to swipe his thumb across Waylon's cheek, brushing away a smudge of gray dirt. Waylon's hand flew up to hold Eddie's hand in place as he nuzzled his cheek gently into his palm.

"I'll just be one minute," whispered Waylon, standing up and walking into the bathroom to change.

* * *

"So this is like, _Project Runway_ , man!"

"Not really," said Eddie, glaring at Frank across the checkered tablecloth of their usual table. "It's an actual, prestigious competition, not some…reality fodder."

"You're bound to win something," said Dennis, holding his Budweiser up in a salute.

"Since I've been back, I've only seen you alter wedding gowns, and sew bridesmaid dresses. I've never seen you create an actual wedding dress," said Waylon, an elbow resting on the table as he leaned toward where Eddie was sitting.

"You're going to shit your pants," said Dennis, earning a reproachful glare from Eddie. "What? I didn't mean it literally. Your dresses are amazing, though. If someone like _me_ can appreciate them, they have to be impressive."

"Do you already have a design in mind?" asked Waylon.

"Yes. I do. It's unconventional. But I think that will help give me an edge-help me stand out. I aim to win, but even just an honorable mention in a niche category would win a sizable amount of prestige, exposure, and, of course, cash."

"You need any help, just let me know, man," said Frank.

"How exactly could you be helpful in this situation?" asked Eddie.

"...or more situations…" added Dennis under his breath.

"Moral support?" said Frank with a shrug. Dennis snickered and Waylon hid a grin behind his hand.

"Well, look who it is! My favorite group of misfits," said Pamela, wandering over to their table. "Short staffed tonight. You feel like putting on your hairnets, Frank? I could use the help."

"Aww, man. Do I gotta?"

"Put on the hairnets, or you're fired," said Pamela.

"Fine," said Frank with a resigned sigh. He stood up as Pamela smiled over at Waylon.

"That dress looks prettier on you than it did when you opened it on your birthday," said Pamela.

"Oh, my, well, thank you," said Waylon, blushing. He wore the red dress lined with black piping that Eddie had tailored to fit him. The dress seemed to have been plucked directly from the fifties.

"What are we all eating tonight, then?" asked Pamela, smiling at the remaining trio after Frank scurried off toward the kitchen, mumbling under his breath.

"Just ribs, side of the day is fine," said Dennis.

"Same," said Eddie, "oh, and a slice of cornbread, if you please."

"I'll have the Rib Shack Wing Challenge special," said Waylon, nodding as he handed over the laminated menu. He smiled at Pamela's pale face.

"Now, darling, let's not be ridiculous," said Eddie.

"You see, Way, the last time you finished the competition, you may not remember it, but you said you'd never, ever, do anything like that again," said Pamela. Perhaps she felt guilty, considering she had been the person that requested Dennis create the fake photograph, and plant the seed in Waylon's mind. She made a valiant effort.

"Well, good thing I don't remember saying that, then," said Waylon. "Oh, and please, bring me extra napkins? I can't get any of the sauce on my new dress."

Pamela looked at Eddie for his permission. He was shaking his head so vigorously the stripe of hair down his head swung out of place, and his blue eyes were wide. She shrugged helplessly. "You got it, Way."

Waylon clapped his hands giddily, and grinned at the shocked faces of Eddie and Dennis. Pamela rushed off to deliver the order.

"You're aware that they're soaked in a sauce made with ghost peppers, right?" asked Dennis. "They're one of the hottest peppers in the world. Definitely the hottest wings in town."

"I've done it before; I can do it again," said Waylon, his excitement flagging slightly as he stared at the horrified expressions surrounding him. "I'm sorry. You guys probably don't care much to watch. But it bothers me. Knowing I've done things that I don't remember experiencing…it haunts me. I want to know what it's like. I want to ride motorcycles, and eat hot wings, and…and love my husband. If I can't remember, I have to deal with that, but I at least want to feel it for myself. I just want to take back what I lost."

Dennis held up his beer to his mouth to keep himself from making any comments. Eddie cleared his throat, and reached for Waylon's hand. "It's only ten wings. Ten…incredibly spicy wings. I know you can do it."

Waylon beamed at the reassuring words. Dennis glared over at Eddie.

Minutes later, a loud bell began clanging in the kitchen and Frank, with both hairnets on, emerged from the kitchen, carrying two rib plates and a small, red plastic basket filled with ten saucy wings. The entire establishment began to clap and cheer, craning their necks to find out who had ordered the challenge. The wings were set in front of Waylon and he wiggled his fingers as he started to reach for a piece of chicken…

"Wait, man! I have to start the timer. Are you sure you're ready?" asked Frank. He reached into a pocket on his stained apron, and produced a regular, white kitchen timer. "You only have twenty minutes. Oh, and if you throw up, you lose."

Waylon nodded. He reached for the stack of extra napkins and tucked one into the neckline of his dress to prevent any sauce dripping on the gown. "Do I get anything to drink?"

Pamela walked up and dropped an extra large glass of ice water in front of Waylon. "Only water, until you're finished. I have some milk in the back for after. Supposedly, it helps with the burn."

"Right," said Waylon. He stared at the steaming plate of chicken wings. They looked deceptively innocent. There was a reddish sauce on them, and their skin looked slightly crispy.

"There's a technique for eating the wings, man," said Frank. "You need to just ,get as much meat off as quickly as possible. Push through the burn. There's only ten, but, if you stop to breathe fire after every bite, you'll never finish."

"Thanks for the pep talk," said Waylon, giving a nervous grin. "I guess there's no time like the present…" He started to reach for a wing and was stopped by Pamela's booming voice.

"The Rib Shack Wing Challenge is about to begin! Wayde Gluskin! Are. You. Ready!"

The clanging bell joined in with the screams from the Friday night crowd at the Shack. Everyone stopped to turn and glance in Waylon's direction.

"On your mark. Get set. Go!" Pamela nodded to Frank who started the timer.

The unnerving ticking sound was right beside Waylon's ear.

Waylon glanced down at the wings, the first signs of nerves on his face. Eddie looked downright sick to his stomach. Dennis had a wicked grin on his face. Waylon took a deep breath, grabbed a wing, and took a large bite-not bothering to test the sauce first.

Eddie watched as Waylon's world devolved into a realm of pain. He grasped his throat, water sprung to his eyes, and he began to cough and splutter. He breathed out and Eddie half expected fire to spew from his mouth like an angry dragon. He peered around the table through tear-filled eyes, grasping blindly for the water. Eddie helped him grasp the water and bring it to his mouth, holding it steady as Waylon gulped quickly.

"The water barely helps!" said Waylon, whimpering. He brought a napkin to his face and began wiping his tongue. The cheap paper quickly dissolved uselessly when it met with moisture.

"I tried to warn you," said Eddie, his voice gentle. "You don't have to eat them."

"Oh, come on," said Dennis, grinning. "Where's your fighting spirit, Way! Come on! Show those wings who's boss. Man up."

Waylon wiped his dripping eyes and nose with another napkin. He glanced over at Frank, holding the timer with a worried look on his bearded face. He looked at the timer. "You've already lost four minutes, man."

Waylon nodded and gulped. A steely look of determination crept onto his face. Waylon picked up the wing and pulled the rest of the meat off with his teeth, chewing quickly.

He writhed in pain, and exhaled violently. He screamed, and howled, and complained—but he never stopped eating. The crowd was cheering like crazy each time he set down another cleaned bone. Waylon was able to power through half of the wings before he had to take a break, the heat threatening to choke off his airways. He shook his head and stared at the remaining five.

"I can't do it…" said Waylon.

"You can do anything you put your mind to," said Eddie.

Somewhere, Waylon found the strength, and forced another wing into his mouth, removing all the meat in one bite. He repeated the technique on another before he was taking another break. "I think my lips are going numb and my esophagus is on fire," said Waylon as tears ran down his flushed cheeks like salty rivulets.

Eddie moved to stand behind him, rubbing his shoulders. "You don't have to finish. You've eaten seven, that is an _astounding_ amount, darling."

"Five minute warning," said Frank, causing the crowd to begin cheering anew. They took up a chant.

"Way! Way! Way!"

The next two were quick. Waylon inhaled them, barely bothering to chew. Waylon banged his empty cup on the table, demanding more water.

"One left!" screamed Frank over the already deafening crowd.

Waylon looked ill. He clutched his stomach and groaned, his mouth pressed into a line as though it were the last defense against spewing up a wave of super spicy vomit onto the Shack's dirty floor.

His eyes were bloodshot and wet as he stared at the last wing in the basket, covered in glistening sauce. He picked up the last wing and his hand trembled.

Waylon's brain seemed to kick into self preservation mode. He had to use his other hand to force the hand with the wing to his mouth. His jaws opened slowly and he quickly pulled the meat away from the wing and chewed. He grunted in pain as he quickly chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue to prove to Frank he had done it. The basket was empty, save for ten bones and excess sauce. When Frank raised his arms, the restaurant exploded.

Pamela put a huge glass of milk in front of Waylon as she held up a camera. "Smile!"

Waylon barely managed to stare bleary eyed in the general direction of the camera. Eddie and Frank leaned in, while Dennis put up bunny ears behind Waylon's head. As soon as the camera flashed, Waylon quickly drained the giant glass of milk, without pause.

Frank come over with wet wipes to clean away every last trace of the dangerous sauce.

"My mouth feels like it will never be the same…" whined Waylon.

"Pretty slick, bro," said Dennis, grinning.

"I never want to do that again, ever," said Waylon, his voice small and serious. Eddie laughed and put an arm around Waylon's shoulders, squeezing him.

"Whatever you say, darling," said Eddie. "I'm so proud of you."

Eddie leaned in and kissed Waylon, oblivious to the crowd. When had it become so easy and natural to kiss Waylon? The judgement of his friends was the furthest thing from his mind as he moved his lips gently against Waylon's, his mouth tingling where they touched.

Eddie's face went blank and it took several seconds to realize the burning was not originating from some magical force emitted from Waylon's lips. Eddie scrubbed at his lips with a napkin, trying to remove the faint traces of ghost pepper sauce from his lips.

"Oops," said Waylon, laughing. "Sorry, Eddie."

"Mark that off the bucket list I guess," said Dennis to Waylon as Frank pulled up a chair, taking another unsanctioned break.

"You definitely earned that spot on the wall," said Frank.

"Am I the only person stupid enough to have completed the competition twice?" asked Waylon.

"Nah, Walker eats it all the time. That meathead will do anything for a free meal," said Frank. Waylon laughed, though he gripped his sides, as though the act of laughing hurt his tense body.

"Man, now that you mention it, where _is_ Walker? Has anyone seen him around?" asked Dennis.

"Pardon me. I feel like I really need to wash my face, and hands, and…I'll just be back," said Waylon. As he walked around the tables, several patrons clapped him on the shoulder or offered encouraging words as he passed, skirt swishing behind him.

"I need to end this," said Eddie, his voice flat and lifeless.

"What?" asked Dennis at the same time that Frank asked, "Why, man?"

"This has finally gone too far," said Eddie, slouching in his chair. "Sure, he was a bastard, and he hurt my business, but now? I don't even care about what he owed me, or what he did to my business. He's more than made up for it. And I'm...I'm starting to care about him."

Dennis and Frank exchanged worried glances, but said nothing.

"I didn't even know him. I just assumed he was an asshole based on one interaction," said Eddie, sighing as he brought a hand up to massage his temples. "He's actually quite...pleasant. He probably has a great family, and friends, all missing him…"

"You called that disgusting woman, though," said Dennis, moving his beer to lean forward onto the table. "She was obviously not being faithful to him, and his boss fired him."

"Maybe that evil woman had him under some kinda mind control, and _that's_ why he was being such an asshole! He was possessed!"

"Frank. Stop." Dennis leveled a challenging glare, but Frank just shrugged.

"And so what?" asked Eddie. "Even if those are the only people in his life, it isn't fair to him to keep it from him. I care about him…"

"You fucked him didn't you?" asked Dennis.

"Wha," Eddie spluttered as he shook his head vigorously. "No! I have not, on my honor. We sleep in separate rooms, you know that. I have not touched him inappropriately even once…"

" _But_ …" said Dennis, motioning with his hand for Eddie to continue.

"I maybe want to," said Eddie, snorting in frustrating.

"Aw, man, it's so romantic," said Frank, sighing. "I never even knew you liked men, Eddie. You used to date girls."

"That's what you get for putting him in those dresses," said Dennis. "From the beginning, I thought it was a weird punishment for him. Seemed more like something you did to make yourself happy."

"I had not _intended_ it that way, in the beginning," said Eddie. "I work with dresses, I prefer them, and I appreciate them. And from a practical standpoint, I had a large supply at the shop that helped me save money on buying him a wardrobe, considering we're nowhere near the same size.. Although, I must admit, seeing him wear them so naturally…he's great at accessories, and he's so…graceful. And thoughtful. And smart. I can't let this go on. He'll never forgive me."

"Yeah, but, if you tell him now, he'll just be hurt, and you'll be hurt, and your competition entry won't happen," said Frank.

"Look, his memory has been out of commission for a long time," said Dennis. "Over a month now. It's bound to kick in any moment. I say, ride it out, and explain later. Better to ask forgiveness than permission."

"And hey, maybe his memory never will come back! Then he'll never know the difference. And he seems so happy," said Frank, a goofy grin on his bearded face. "You can't send him back when he's so happy with his _new_ self."

Eddie hummed. Neither argument was very convincing. Dennis and Frank likely just wanted him to be happy, and, therefore, made excuses for his terrible behavior. The ends justified the means, in their minds. Eddie was not so sure.

But when he spotted Waylon across the room, red dress swaying and blond hair swept back…his heart stopped. He wouldn't tell him. Yet. He made a promise to himself. He would try again to find out about Waylon's real life. He would do the research when he went to deliver the application in Denver.

* * *

Later that night, Waylon locked himself away in the bathroom. Eddie had not heard the shower for some time, and assumed Waylon had finally tired himself out, after trying to scrub away every last trace of ghost pepper sauce.

Eddie was too anxious to sit still. He kept his pacing to the living room, which was remarkably clear due to Waylon's efforts.

The floor, no longer covered in dirt and trash, had been polished and cleaned. Waylon had even taken the time to place interesting trinkets and china on the once cluttered shelves, and hung up a few old paintings after cleaning the glass. A pair of hand embroidered pillows adorned the couch Waylon used as a bed. Eddie could not help but smile when he saw them. It had been so long since he had seen the pillows his mother had stitched.

The old television set acted as the background noise to his thoughts. He was thinking about Waylon Park.

Not Wayde Gluskin. Not the charming man stealing all of Eddie's thoughts away. The Waylon Park that entered his shop, and turned his life upside down. Who even was that person? Eddie tried to imagine _his_ Waylon glaring and threatening him. It was impossible.

It was not at all what Eddie should have been imagining. His thoughts about Waylon always seemed to turn vulgar. Deliciously so. Eddie often thought back on the night of the birthday party. Waylon's kiss, his wandering hand, and his breathy request. Eddie had come close to committing a cardinal sin.

If Waylon regained his memories, there was a chance-or at least a sliver of hope-that Eddie could explain the situation. He could apologize and detail exactly how he developed true feelings over time. But if he slept with Waylon? How could he quality such behavior? It would be impossible. It was a line he could not allow himself to cross.

Eddie paused in his pacing, and decided to attempt to sleep. He walked into the bathroom to prepare for bed, and almost bumped right into Waylon.

"S-sorry," said Eddie. It as the only thing he managed, before he realized that Waylon was wearing only a thin towel. Waylon's leg was resting on the side of the tub as he pulled a small pink razor up his calf. Eddie caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked as though he were flushed with a fever.

"Going to bed?" asked Waylon. He was calm about his state of undress, unconcerned that Eddie was seeing him. Eddie was staring so intently at Waylon's smooth leg that he forgot how to speak. "Eddie?"

"Y-yes. Bed." It was at least words. Waylon gave a devilish grin at Eddie's expression. He resumed his small swipes of the razor, humming to himself. Eddie could not tear his eyes away.

"Hand me my robe? It's hanging on the back of the door," said Waylon. Eddie slowly comprehended the words and turned to retrieve the fluffy, pale blue robe in question. He handed it to Waylon, and gasped when Waylon dropped the towel. "Thank you."

Eddie diverted his eyes as Waylon slipped into his robe. He had already seen everything, and committed it to memory. Waylon was everything Eddie had ever fantasized about in a partner. His body was slender, but toned—very manly. Though in addition to the strength, there was also the allure of smooth skin and soft edges.

"It's okay, you know? If you look? I mean, we're married," said Waylon, tying the sash around his waist.

"It wouldn't be proper," said Eddie.

"How much longer are you going to make me wait?" asked Waylon, walking until his body was hovering dangerous close to Eddie's. "What if the memory never returns? What if it's years? I don't know if I can handle the thought of going _years_ without some kind of relief…"

"Y-years?"

Waylon lifted up on his toes and kissed Eddie, gentle lips coaxing until the kiss opened to something more intimate. A shy tongue, a breathy moan, and a pair of strong hands sliding up Eddie's clothed chest.

"On second thought I don't need to shower," said Eddie, flustered as he removed Waylon's hands and backed out of the bathroom, tripping over his feet, and stumbling into the wall. "I'm actually quite tired." He gave a fake yawn that became more of a pained groan toward the end as Eddie drew it out much longer than necessary.

Waylon frowned and bent down to pick up the discarded towel. He paused while kneeling to look up at Eddie stalling in the hallway. "Is it me? Am I different? Are you not...attracted to me?"

"That's not it at all," said Eddie, clearing his throat. "No, you are, quite attractive."

"Really?" asked Waylon, standing up with a pink blush on his cheeks.

"Yes," said Eddie, smiling despite his nerves. "You have lovely hair, such expressive eyes, you dress with so much style and care, and carry yourself with grace and poise. You're kind, and quick to laugh. You charm everyone who meets you. And you charm me most of all."

"Thank you, Eddie," said Waylon.

* * *

A/N: There is a double update today! Enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8: Relearn

**Chapter 8: Relearn**

Waylon spent most of the new few days sorting through boxes, and dealing with the antique sales. Eddie manned the shop, alone. He pushed himself harder than ever before in an effort to get caught up on all of his current commissions. He wanted to devote all of his attention to the competition piece, as soon he registered that weekend.

Eddie worked nonstop, even working late several nights that week. The back room was a clutter of fabric laid out on tables, and garments hung up on hangers, with two sewing machines dominating one giant desk. Eddie sat hunched over one of the machines, that friday night, when Waylon paid a surprise visit.

"You're working so late," said Waylon, "I brought you some dinner." He held up a foil covered plate. The peach dress he wore that night was lovely with strappy sleeves and a sweetheart blond hair was brushed back, having grown past his ears over the last month.

"I'm sorry, darling," said Eddie, stretching his back as he sat up straight. His usual dress clothes of a white shirt and navy slacks and vest had grown wrinkled due to his bad posture. "I need to get all of my other sewing completed before I commit to sewing an entire wedding dress. I know once I begin, I won't be able to take many breaks. I tend to get obsessive over one project at a time."

"Could I help you?" asked Waylon.

"You're already such a huge help to me, darling. None of this would be possible without you. Your work is funding the entire competition project, not to mention the renovations…"

"No, I mean, before I lost my memory, did I ever help with the sewing? It makes sense that I would help with some of the sewing, but, I can't remember ever having sewed in my life. Not that that means anything, since I don't remember…much of anything…"

"Oh, well, you were always more concerned with the shop than the actual sewing," said Eddie, shrugging. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable with how easy it had become to lie to Waylon. Almost as though Eddie believed it himself.

"Maybe you could teach me now?" said Waylon, smiling hopefully.

"Ah, it would probably only slow me down to have to stop and…" Eddie paused when he saw the disappointment creep onto Waylon's face. "On second thought, why not? Come here."

Eddie sat on his usual chair with a wheeled stool was beside him, holding some of his work. He quickly moved fabric and notions off of the stool before patting the empty seat. Waylon clapped his hands together.

"Alright, I am merely hemming the skirts on these dresses," said Eddie, speaking with his best professional tone-like one would expect from a teacher. "I have already pinned the skirts at the correct length. Now, you just need to make a straight stitch. It sounds simple, but you must be careful to keep the hem in line. Luckily, these ladies are getting a discount, so it shouldn't matter if a few of the hems are uneven. No one will notice."

Waylon chuckled as he nervously touched the garment. "Can I get hurt?"

"Only if you put your hand under the needle. I don't recommend doing that. No, for now, it's rather safe. The pedal on the ground there? That's how you start the machine. Here," said Eddie. He moved his chair up behind Waylon and moved to the edge of the seat. "I will help you guide the fabric. You just need to push down on the pedal. On my signal."

Eddie's hands started at Waylon's shoulders, causing his back to straighten suddenly. They slid down, barely touching Waylon's shoulders and arms left bare by the thin straps of his peach dress he wore. The casual mood of the quick lesson was suddenly tilted on its head. There was something thrilling about that innocent touch. Eddie's hands eventually covered Waylon's completely, and moved them into place on the garment.

"This is how you hold the fabric. Straight—but never stretched," said Eddie, his hands squeezing Waylon's, illustrating the correct, and incorrect, methods. Waylon's palms felt sweaty.

"The needle is here, you can use the measurements on the base there to figure out exactly where the stitch will be. It's important to keep it as straight as possible, always the same amount of space between the edge and the needle," said Eddie. He leaned forward, his chest pressing into Waylon's back, and his chin resting on Waylon's bare shoulder. "Press the pedal, now," Eddie whispered by his ear.

Waylon's hands trembled slightly as his foot put pressure down on the pedal. The machine screamed to life, loudly humming as the needle moved so quickly it was a blur. Waylon jumped as though the machine had attempted to bite him.

"Ah, apologies, darling," said Eddie, chuckling. He released Waylon and made an adjustment on the machine. "Probably should not have the speed set on the highest setting, considering this is your first time."

"F-first time," stuttered Waylon. He took in a broken breath as Eddie moved back into position, his hands rubbing down Waylon's arms gently, his warm breath against his neck as he rested his chin.

"Try again," said Eddie. The second time Waylon pressed down, the machine hummed to life and the needle moved at a steady pace, considerably slower than before. "Now, watch where we're feeding," Eddie instructed in Waylon's ear.

Eddie's hands on Waylon's guided the fabric, keeping it held in place while feeding it slowly into the machine. Eddie watched carefully, slowly removing the pins as the fabric passed through, adequately hemmed. A few times the fabric became bunched, or a stitch went crooked, and Eddie would correct Waylon's hands, gently, and tell him to continue.

It took a considerable amount of time, hemming just one long skirt. Waylon seemed relieved when the seam began to approach the beginning—and ending—of their demonstration. "Wonderful, darling," said Eddie. He released Waylon's hand after demonstrating how to correctly backstitch and cut the thread. "What do you think?"

"I think…I…you're," Waylon paused to wet his lips. Eddie was still pressed against his back, enjoying his warmth. "You're so talented."

"It's not so much talent as it was practice," said Eddie. "I've been sewing since I was only seven years old." His hands moved without conscious thought, rubbing gently along Waylon's arms as he spoke. "My mother taught me. She opened this shop. I worked here with her, until her death." Eddie's fingers paused in their movements to absentmindedly toy with the straps of Waylon's dress.

"Do you like it?" asked Waylon. Eddie paused for a moment, his hands stilling. "Sewing. Do you like sewing?"

"Ah, yes," said Eddie, pressing his nose just slightly into Waylon's hair. "I do rather enjoy it. Especially the design side. But there is a tranquility in sewing. In focusing on a task, and completing it. And I very much enjoy looking at the finished projects."

"You're so enamored with women's clothing, and yet you like men," said Waylon, grinning. Eddie just gave a thoughtful hum.

"I like you," Eddie whispered close, bringing his lips close to the skin on Waylon's shoulder. He pressed a chaste kiss to the flushed skin there. He had only meant the gesture as one of comfort and admiration, but the soft gasp that escaped Waylon's lips fanned a sudden urgent desire. Eddie's hands on Waylon immediately lifted slightly, his body hovering close enough to feel the radiating heat, but no longer touching.

"Touch me more," whispered Waylon, catching Eddie off guard. He paused as though every muscle in his body had become stone. "Please, I…I want to be a real husband to you."

Eddie sat back and pushed his chair away from Waylon. He needed to put distance between them—fast. He did not stop until his back bumped against the shop wall. Waylon spun around on his own stool, a hurt expression on his face. "I'm sorry, darling, I just have so much to do tonight…"

"I don't know what our relationship was like, before," said Waylon, forcing his restless hands down into his lap. "I don't know if we had problems, or issues. I don't know what you liked, or disliked. All I know is me—now. The way I am, today. And…" Waylon's face was redder than Eddie had ever seen it.

"Don't stress yourself, darling…"

"I want…" Waylon bit his lip as he used his feet to walk the stool closer to Eddie. "I want to be with you. I want you to make love to me." Waylon could not keep meeting Eddie's eyes after the admission.

"I don't know how it works," said Waylon, his words coming quick and clipped. "Honestly, I can't remember ever having been with anyone in my life. But, I want it. That is, I want you. I have for a while now." With small steps, Waylon walked his stool closer to Eddie while still seated.

"You're a great man to give me so much time, and space, and not pressure me at all. You've been so patient. I'm sorry that my memory is still missing. But, even without knowing anything about before, anything about our relationship, or marriage, or sex life…"

Eddie coughed, his face going as red as Waylon's. The conversation had taken a decidedly frightening turn. He could not explain to Waylon the truth in that moment. That they did not have a relationship. That Eddie had never had a true relationship with a man.

All of the sex acts between men seemed wrong in Eddie's twisted memories. He didn't want to imagine doing those terrible things to sweet, gentle Waylon.

But Waylon refused to drop the issue. He stood up and walked until he was right in front of Eddie. He slowly lowered himself, legs straddling Eddie's, before settling on his lap. He draped his arms around Eddie's neck and leaned forward until their foreheads met. Eddie could have sworn Waylon was suffering from a fever judging by the heat emanating from his body. "Don't you want me, too?"

A heartbeat—maybe two—passed, before Eddie's restraint burst. Strong arms slid easily around Waylon's body. Large hands pressed into Waylon's back, holding him close. All common sense demanding that he leave the area evaporated, when Eddie kissed Waylon.

There was nothing patient, or gentle, about the demanding kiss. Eddie forced Waylon's mouth open with his own, pressing his tongue into Waylon's mouth, determined to finally taste what he had been denying himself for so long.

Waylon moaned and Eddie swallowed the sound, remembering the first time he had heard it, through the bedroom wall. Waylon struggled to keep up, his lips and tongue moving out of sync, as though he were struggling to remember how to kiss. Finally, Waylon seemed to relax in Eddie's arms and their kissing became much easier. Perhaps some memories had returned—or instinct had taken over. Waylon rolled his hips in Eddie's lap. Eddie knew Waylon could feel the press of his arousal against his inner thigh.

Eddie's fingers threaded through Waylon's blond locks as they kissed. Waylon sighed happily into his mouth, and Eddie nipped at his lower lip. The kiss was better than any in Eddie's life, even with his lifetime of memories to compare. The soft, shy way that Waylon moved his lips against Eddie's only fueled his desire. He groaned in frustration, fighting his own craving to be rough.

In the past, partners complained that he was too rough. That his affections in the bedroom often hurt. None of them had appreciated it, and Eddie had not really cared. When it came to holding Waylon, though, he found that he did care.

Eddie's hands shook with the force of will required to keep his caresses gentle and soft. He traced Waylon's ear with a light touch and sucked his tongue into his mouth before their kiss broke. Waylon pressed their foreheads together as he struggled to catch his breath.

With a determined set in his jaw, Waylon thrust a hand down onto Eddie's thigh, fingers splayed and searching, until he was gripping Eddie's outlined member through his slacks. A broken moan escaped Eddie's lips at the touch. He removed his hands from Waylon's back and gripped the edges of his seat, fighting his initial response to move away—far away.

Why should he have to stop? Why should the guilt return at a moment like that? Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and focused on Waylon's hot mouth, trailing kissing down his throat.

Maybe Waylon from last month would complain. Maybe that Waylon would be furious. But that day, that Waylon wanted to be with Eddie, and it was not a trick, or a lie. Eddie could not have forced him to come at him in that way if he had tried. That made it alright. That had to make it alright, because Waylon began undoing Eddie's belt and slacks with determined movements.

Eddie stared down, eyes heavily lidded as he watched Waylon's face. The look when he finally managed to reach down Eddie's boxers and map out the length and girth of his hard shaft. Waylon seemed confused, as though trying to determine what to do with the new information. Within a few moments he reached some conclusion, and pulled the waistband of Eddie's boxers down.

"You're hard," said Waylon, staring down at Eddie's lap, breathing heavily. Eddie snorted and bit his lip to keep from laughing outright.

"Obviously," said Eddie. He moved his hands to Waylon's knees which were hugging his sides in that moment. Eddie slid his palms up slowly, pushing Waylon's dress up as he moved. Waylon gave a soft gasp when Eddie reached the top of his thighs and his fingers brushed Waylons' own erection through his underwear. "That's what usually happens when two people are kissing, and touching, one another. You're hard, too."

"I have more questioned I wanted to ask you," said Waylon, his voice breathy and light as he squirmed in Eddie's lap. "How were we? In the past?" Waylon's fingers wrapped around Eddie's shaft and pushed down, slow and firm.

Eddie sucked air through his teeth and closed his eyes. He shook his head, attempting to formulate a response, but Waylon continued. "Were we one of those couples that couldn't keep their hands off of one another?" Waylon squeezed Eddie in his hand to emphasize his meaning. Eddie's cock throbbed in response.

"How…were…we," said Eddie, repeating the question to buy time. It was difficult to ignore the persistent touch, or the slight movement in Waylon's hips as he shifted on Eddie's lap. "We…we were a little more reserved."

"That's a shame," said Waylon, tilting his head to resume gently sucking at Eddie's neck. "Lately, I feel like maybe, in the past, we were inseparable. I thought it might be some memory returning. But I suppose it's just how I am feeling since I woke up."

Eddie's hands stilled under Waylon's dress. He pulled down the hem of Waylon's underwear and stroked his swollen flesh, fingers dancing over the tip where moisture had already formed. He rubbed it into the head with his thumb as Waylon quivered in his grip. "I only want you to be contented with me…"

"I'm more than content," said Waylon, sighing happily. "I'm happy with you. Even without remembering anything from before. You've made me so happy these last months." Waylon's words were accompanied by a persistent tug at Eddie's cock. "I feel like a virgin again."

"No virgin could know how to touch me like that," said Eddie, though it came out as a low growl. He leaned forward and licked the skin along Waylon's shoulder, the thin strap falling off. The hanging strap and bare shoulder gave Waylon a decidedly disheveled appearance that Eddie found insanely attractive.

"Tell me about our first time," said Waylon. His hips were rolling gently against Eddie's touch as his fingers worked along Eddie's thick shaft.

"You looked beautiful," said Eddie, keeping his lips close to Waylon's skin. "I had never wanted anyone so badly in my entire life." Waylon whimpered softly and Eddie felt a fresh dribble of moisture he used to ease his hand's movements.

"You felt like the answer to prayers I didn't remember making," said Eddie. "You made me so happy, and all I wanted was to make you happy in return. I tried to keep my hands to myself-I hope you know that I tried so very hard. But you made it impossible." Eddie attacked Waylon's neck anew while stroking him. Waylon's grip grew tighter when he pushed his hips up into Eddie's fist.

"Did I like sucking cock?" asked Waylon, causing Eddie to vocalize a completely involuntary noise. "Was I good at it?"

"I imagine you would be good at anything you put your head to..."

"Was I usually on the receiving end when we had sex?" asked Waylon, punctuating each sentence with a tiny kiss to Eddie's open mouth. "Because when I look at you, I think I really want to know how you would feel inside of me." The moan that escaped Eddie's lips was almost comical.

"I would give you anything you wanted," said Eddie, stroking Waylon with tighter, more focused, movements. "Is that what you are after? You want me to bend you over?" Waylon moaned and clawed at Eddie's chest through his clothes while his other hand stroked up and down on his erection. "You would like that? Even not knowing the past…"

"I don't have a past," said Waylon, though it came out as a whine. "I have a present. I want you even without what we had before. I want you—now."

"And I want to give you everything-now," said Eddie, biting down on Waylon's shoulder, tongue laving over the bruised skin. There was a strangled, desperate noise from Waylon before he bucked his hips shamelessly into Eddie's hand. He folded forward, his hand clutching Eddie's shaft like a gear stick, as he moaned helplessly.

Eddie could hardly breathe. He was straining to take in every detail of Waylon's pleasure. The feel of his hot breath as he panted against Eddie's shirt, the slick slide of velvety skin over his hardness, the smell of him that was manly and clean, and then the sounds…

"Nnng," Waylon moaned piteously. He suddenly sat up, and his hand flew beneath his dress and he covered his cock, groaning and spasming with each spurt into his own hand. Some of the excess dribbled down his length, coating Eddie's fingers.

Waylon was hunched over, his head touching Eddie's shoulder as he straddled his lap. He waited there for several seconds, breathing deep and staring down between them.

Eddie hardly cared that his own erection was being ignored. The experience of Waylon's climax had every fiber in his body throbbing. He wondered if he could have finished just from watching.

It had been a very, very long time since anyone had touched him like that. Even during his previous sexual experiences, none had felt so intense. He had never felt such a primal desire to rut and mark another person.

Waylon's dilated brown eyes finally glanced up as he caught his breath. He readjusted his posture on Eddie's lap as fingers resumed their position, curling around Eddie's length.

The new grip was sticky—wet. Eddie's eyes went wide as he realized what had happened. When Waylon's hand began moving again it was much easier, slick with so much of his own come, and Eddie's hands flew to his chair, gripping the edges until his knuckles turned white.

It was vulgar. He had never thought of engaging in such a desperate act with another person, but when Waylon learned forward, and flicked his tongue across Eddie's ear, he came without further warning. The strands flew, roping outward and staining Waylon's peach dress with milky pearls that started to drip and smear.

Waylon seemed to deflate in his lap, collapsing against his chest, as Eddie leaned back, letting his head drop while he caught his breath. He was hypersensitive to every movement from Waylon—the rise of his chest as he caught his breath, the shift of his hips as he put more weight on Eddie, and the slight quiver of his body when Eddie reached up one hand to gently push against his back.

Eddie held Waylon there in the dim lighting of the workroom, unwilling to move and break the spell that had surely settled over them to create such a perfect moment. They were silent for an eternity before Waylon spoke.

"Have we ever done anything like that before?"

The question sounded so simple—so innocent. The curiosity of a virgin, wondering if they had disappointed their more experienced partner.

"No," said Eddie, turning his head to press his lips into Waylon's sweaty hair. It smelled like herbal shampoo and sweat. "I've never felt anything that…good." The word seemed inappropriate, unable to fully describe the exact feeling in his chest, but Eddie felt the need to censor himself. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, darling."

Waylon pressed his face into Eddie's shoulder. He could feel the smile, and his imagination supplied the sight of Waylon blushing. How was it that he found another man so utterly adorable? The perfect mixture of gentleness and strength. He refused to dwell on exactly why he was having these feelings—and why they felt so right.


	9. Chapter 9: Forgotten

**Chapter 9: Forgotten**

"You're sure you can handle it?" asked Eddie, frowning down at Waylon.

"Yes, I can handle it," said Waylon with a patient smile. "There's no appointments, I can schedule one for any walk-ins, and show them around. I already answer most of the calls. It'll probably be slow, and I can tackle the scrap bin. It's really disorganized…"

"Don't overwork yourself," said Eddie.

"I won't. Now, please! Get going, or you won't be back in time for dinner," said Waylon. He slid his hands around Eddie's neck and pulled him close for a sweet, lingering kiss. Eddie could not resist the need to sigh into the kiss, and hold Waylon close to him. He felt the loss the moment that delicious warmth pulled away. "Make sure he drives safely!"

"Sure thing, bro," said Dennis, glancing up, momentarily, from his phone. When Eddie approached the truck, Dennis slid into the passenger's seat and buckled up. Eddie honked the horn-and waved-and blew a kiss-before finally turning onto the road, and driving toward the highway.

"So," said Dennis, still staring down at the screen as Eddie drove, "we gonna talk about that?"

"What do you mean?" asked Eddie.

"You two look extremely cozy lately. Kissing? You remember that you're not _really_ married, right? Is there any sign of his memory returning?"

"No. Nothing," said Eddie, gripping the wheel.

"What do you think is going to happen when that guy remembers who he is—who you are—and has to then look at what you've done to him over the past months? I mean, getting some revenge, okay, I see that, I didn't care about putting some snobby asshole in his place, but now…I don't want to see either of you get hurt…"

"That's why I'm bringing you along on this trip," said Eddie, keeping his eyes glued to the road, and his hands in the correct position on the steering wheel.

"I thought you needed someone there to co-sign or some shit?" asked Dennis.

"I only said that for Way's benefit," said Eddie, frowning as he turned through town on his way to the highway. "I am sending you on a mission. I retrieved his address from his customer file. I need you to go and investigate, while I take care of the application process."

"Dammit, I should have known this sounded sketchy from the start. You're getting too good at lying—it's not a good thing."

"When I tried to contact his fiancee, she was completely uninterested in finding him," said Eddie. "Surely there's someone looking for him. His family? His friends? I would go myself, but Lisa would likely be able to identify me, and I don't need any hysterics. You're good at pretending to be things you're not. Just, go to the address, tell the inhabitants you're Waylon's old war buddy or something."

"There's no way in hell that guy was in any war," said Dennis, with a snort.

"I don't know, golf partners?"

"I don't golf."

"Why are you making this difficult?" asked Eddie, grunting out of frustration.

"Fine. Okay. But you're going to owe me."

Eddie wondered if maybe he should not have brought Frank instead, but then immediately dismissed the thought. Frank would likely get lost on the way to the address. Not to mention his long, rambling conspiracy theory discussions in the two hour car drive. Eddie was both afraid, and hopeful, that Dennis would be successful in finding some information.

It was harder than ever to think about Waylon leaving, after the dam had finally burst, and they shared such an intimate moment. The drive home had been awkward. Eddie thought it would be impolite not to ask Waylon to join him in his bed, after what had happened in the back room. But then his senses seemed to catch up with him. He hurried into the bedroom before a confused, and slightly hurt, Waylon could voice any dissent.

Eddie wanted to be with Waylon, but he knew it could not happen. Not the way they were at that time. It was more imperative than ever that Eddie help Waylon regain his memories, if he wanted any hope of salvaging some of what had developed between them.

If the feelings growing between them were genuine, then Waylon would not leave him—Eddie could explain it all. And then there would be no more need for lies or secrets.

* * *

The door to apartment 2536 opened before Dennis could even tap his knuckles against the wood.

"Oh! Excuse me," said a brunette woman, wearing obnoxiously large sunglasses that obscured half of her face.

"Yeah, listen, are you Lisa Park?" asked Dennis. He allowed his eyes to wander up and down the woman's frame. She was almost as tall as Waylon wearing tall, red stilettos that matched her red blouse over navy pants ensemble.

"What? No," said Lisa, scoffing aloud and shaking her head as though Denis had made some joke.

"Well, do you know where she might live? I have this address on file…"

"What is this in reference to, again?"

"I have some information, about her wedding," said Dennis.

"Oooooh! Okay, sorry about that," said Lisa, giggling girlishly as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. "I'm Lisa White. Park was the name of my ex-fiance. The arrangements for that wedding have been delayed, permanently. I apologize if there was some forgotten appointment I've been so busy lately, and…"

"Canceled wedding, eh?" asked Dennis, putting on a lopsided grin and dropping his heavy brow. "So, you're single?"

Lisa's nose scrunched up as she frowned, her lip twitching from having curled up so far. "No. I am most certainly not single. Wait, who are you again?"

"Name's Dennis. Does Waylon Park still live here?" asked Dennis, casually. His physical appearance gave no hints of any ulterior motives. He was an expert at keeping his tone and face neutral.

"No. Yes. I don't know," said Lisa, eyes darting behind her sunglasses. "His name is on the lease, and the rent payments are withdrawn from his accounts, but I have not seen him in…well, just over a month I suppose."

"Is he missing?" asked Dennis.

"Missing? Oh, God no, he just…ran away, took a break—for personal reasons," said Lisa.

"Who would want to run away from a doll like you? You seem so sweet, and loyal, and concerned…"

Lisa sniffed and pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead, glaring at Dennis with dark blue eyes. There was the faintest shadow of a bruise under her right eye.

"Listen, I don't know who you are, Dennis-if that is your real name-or what business you have with Waylon, but he's not here. I'm living here until my marriage at the end of the summer. I don't know where Waylon is, or when he will be back, and frankly, I don't care. He abandoned me. He can go to hell."

"What if he was in some kind of horrible accident?" asked Dennis, frowning at Lisa's callous attitude.

"Not likely. His credit cards show activity in New York City, of all places. Who knows what he's doing now. He's disappeared on hiking expeditions in the past," said Lisa, pushing her dark shades back into place. "I'm late for a lunch appointment. So, if you'll excuse me…"

"What if he was beaten, robbed, and left for dead somewhere? What if he's lying in a ditch, rotting away? He could be captive somewhere? Or maybe he lost his memory, and some twisted bastard convinced Waylon that he's his wife, and put him to work in his dress shop?"

Lisa laughed, showing off pearly white teeth, framed by ruby red lipstick. "You're hilarious. Those are the craziest ideas I've ever heard. I don't know what business you had with Waylon, but he's a grown man with a sizeable savings account. He can support himself for a long time, wherever he is. And he was really…distressed, the last time I saw him. His work was stressing him out, the wedding wasn't going as planned, and he was complaining about everything. When he didn't meet the car, Jeremy and I…"

"Who's Jeremy?" asked Dennis.

"My fiance, and Waylon's boss," said Lisa, turning up her nose. "Well, ex-boss, I suppose, Waylon is _super_ fired. He left them behind at the absolute worst time when they were rolling out new software, that he designed, and now they're having a hell of a time. Considering what a shit storm it is back at Murkoff, I wouldn't really blame Waylon for running away and hiding. That's usually his way of handling situations."

Dennis frowned, remembering Waylon with tear filled eyes forcing the last chicken wing into his mouth during the eating challenge. Was Way really the kind of guy that runs away from a challenge? Dennis narrowed his eyes at Lisa, trying to determine if she was lying, or if there was possibly a mix up, and Eddie had kidnapped a Waylon Park impersonator.

"I wish him the best, wherever he is. I'm happier without him," said Lisa, causing Dennis' glare to intensify, though she remained blind to his outrage. "Now, I'm sorry, but I have to go."

"Doesn't he have any…family? Friends? If his fiancee and job don't give a shit about him, there had to be somebody who does, right?"

Lisa paused after locking the door. "What exactly are you after here?"

"He left behind some unpaid debts my client would like to collect," said Dennis, attempting to be as vague as possible.

"Hmm. Well, he's an only child, dead parents, and he's impossibly shy. Doesn't have many friends. I had to do all the work at his business events—parties, socializing, schmoozing, the works. It was exhausting. The only real friend he can claim is this, belligerent wannabe-reporter…"

"What's his name?" asked Dennis.

"Miles Upshur," said Lisa, enunciating clearly. "Go bother that asshole. He works as a copy editor at the Post. Though last time I saw him, he was looking for Waylon, same as you. Now. If you'll excuse me…"

Lisa gestured for Dennis to move out of the way, and did not pass him in the hall until he had pressed himself completely against the wall.

"Thanks for being so helpful," said Dennis, smirking. "Good luck on your next wedding, bitch."

"Ex-CUSE ME?"

Dennis had already turned away, stalking straight down the hall, toward the stairs, leaving an enraged Lisa in his wake.

* * *

"Did they leave a name?" asked Miles, struggling to keep his fists balled and at his sides as he glared at the dark haired college intern glaring at him through red rimmed glasses with empty holes where lenses should have been.

"I dunno," she said.

"YOU DUNNO, Trisha, this is your job…"

"Trager told me I'm supposed to take messages for the journalists, he didn't say anything about the copy editors," said Trisha, a bored expression on her face. "You're not working on a story, right? So this was some personal call?" Trisha waited for some argument from Miles. When none came, she smirked.

"I'm here to learn about journalism, not to play secretary," said Trisha. "I'm going to write for a paper even bigger than the Post after I graduate. I need this credit, and since Trager signs my forms, and not you, I suggest that you stop yelling at me, or I'll tell Human Resources about the time you were looking up my skirt…"

"I dropped a fucking pen," said Miles through clenched teeth.

"Whatever, perv."

Miles squeezed his mouth shut and returned to his tiny, cluttered cubicle in the very back corner where not even the smallest sliver of sunlight could penetrate the dusty darkness. His computer was still opened to the website showing Waylon's phone history. Unsurprisingly, most of the calls during his first missing weeks had been from Lisa and Murkoff. But then there was a strange call from Leadville, Colorado—Waylon's last known whereabouts.

He had texted Lisa about the call, since it had a duration, meaning it had been answered. Lisa claimed it was someone calling with information about Waylon. She had not responded to his texts demanding more information about the call.

The call he had missed, while out on lunch, was from the exact same Leadville number.

Someone in Leadville, Colorado knew something about Waylon. Maybe it was nothing. The Museum calling about the wedding plans? The tailor trying to collect on the canceled order? But Miles' reporters' sense told him not to ignore the lead. He needed to get to Leadville. If only he had not already pressed his luck to get the month off for his freelance investigation.

It was difficult to break into being a published reporter—especially with the kind of unpopular investigations that interested Miles the most. Companies and governments did not appreciate people looking too closely at their operations. Miles was lucky to have a job even remotely in the journalism field to pay his bills, boost his resume, and increase his industry contacts. He could not afford to lose his job. But he also could not afford to lose Waylon.

Where was Waylon anyways? Miles pushed a stack of folders containing printouts in need of editing. It was his job to edit the rough drafts for the most basic of grammar and typo errors before it was sent to the typographers. Then the proofreaders. Miles was the lowest rung on the redundancy ladder.

The clutter on his desk had knocked over his favorite framed photograph. He lifted it up and wiped the dusty glass with his sleeve to clean it. Waylon's smiling face shone back at him. The two of them had taken the photograph at a Dave Matthew's Band concert during college. It had been one of their best summers together, even counting all their fun in high school. Waylon wouldn't just up and leave without telling him. Would he?

Miles looked around, making sure he was out of sight, before dipping into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulling out a nondescript flask. He unscrewed the lid and took a long swig of the cheap bourbon he kept on hand—in case of emergencies. And asking Trager for anything was always an emergency situation.

It was a long walk upstairs to get to the office of Editor-in-Chief Richard Trager. The door was ajar and the glass on the window had Trager's name in bold, white letters. Miles sighed before knocking loudly.

"Come in…"

Miles walked into the office, and closed the door behind him. It was an office full of reporters—everyone gossiped. A closed door was really only a minor inconvenience for curious minds.

"Hey buddy," said Trager, a slimy smile on his creased face as he glanced up at Miles. He pushed away, slightly, from his desk and wove his fingers together behind his head as he leaned back. "What can I do for ya?"

"I need time off," said Miles, frowning. Trager wore tiny spectacles that fell to the end of his crooked nose. His head was bald on top, but a long, gray ponytail fell down his back. He wore slacks with suspenders over his dress shirt and a skinny black tie.

"Oh sure, yeah, you just got back in town last week, but ya know, you need time off, I'm sure it's for something important? Something…work related?"

"Personal," said Miles.

"Ah, I shoulda known," said Trager, chuckling to himself. "Ya know, time is money, and my time is infinitely more valuable than your time. So why don't you quit wasting my time and do your job, hmm?" Miles opened his mouth to retort and was silenced with a hand signal. "If you can't be here during the assigned hours of operation, then I'm going to be forced to let you go. These articles can't edit themselves."

"It's a family emergency," said Miles, keeping his voice quiet but firm.

"Didn't you put in for a transfer? Want to be a full time reporter then, not just a copy editor?" asked Trager. Miles gave a curt nod. "And haven't I helped you in the past? Giving you those stories to write?"

"You gave me two assigned stories. One about a wild hog getting drunk off of fermented apples, and the other about a bear getting its head stuck in a fence."

"And you did well! But, why would I ever see fit to promote someone who doesn't even show up for work?" asked Trager.

"I took the month off, unpaid, for career oriented, reasons…"

"Yeah, and David had to cover with the editing for you that entire time. Now, this isn't personal, it's business, and my business is making sure that you do your business, so either get back there, and do your business, or quit wasting my time."

"Then take this job and shove it up your wrinkled, fucking ass you disgusting bastard," Miles wanted to say. But he didn't. Instead he took a deep breath and nodded, though his frown was so severe it hurt his cheeks.

"I understand. Sorry to bother you," said Miles.

"Oh, and, hey buddy? I need today's edits on my desk by four o'clock, I have an important business dinner tonight, so make sure you get your part done, on time. You can manage that, though, right?"

"Yes, sir."

Miles was stewing when he made it back to his desk. He opened the first folder and immediately slammed it closed, much louder than necessary. He dialed the number, again. Voice mail. Nothing personalized, only the robotic message that came standard. No lead there. There was no personal information about the number on the Internet. And then there was the problem about Waylon's credit cards being accessed in New York City.

Miles decided there was one thing he could do to help find his friend. He just hoped it didn't leave Waylon stranded in some remote location. Miles quickly looked up a number and dialed out on his work phone.

"Thank you for calling American Express, how may I direct your call?"

"Yeah, hi, this is Waylon Park. I'm calling to report a stolen credit card."

* * *

Eddie was flustered when he exited the high-rise building that housed the offices of the committee behind the Denver Bridal Showcase. He frowned as he searched the parking lot for his pick-up truck. He had been scanning the rows of cars for several minutes when he heard tires squealing as his truck pulled up. Dennis was hunched over the wheel, grinning.

"Ready to go?"

"Does this mean you found information?" asked Eddie, walking to the driver's side and waiting while Dennis opened the door and returned to his seat in the passenger's side. Once he was behind the wheel, Eddie put the car into drive and began trek back to Leadville.

"Uh, kind of," said Dennis, frowning down at his phone.

"Well! Don't keep me waiting!"

"I've been unable to check my phone for a minute, just hold the fuck up," said Dennis, muttering to himself until he finally turned his phone off and sat back. "What happened in there, anyways? We making a dress, or what?"

"We're making a dress," said Eddie, unable to stop a small smile appearing on his lips as he watched the road. "I presented my design, received a lengthy interview about…the most ridiculous things. What inspires you to design, if you could design for any period what would it be…"

"God that sounds awful…"

"It was," said Eddie, frowning. "But afterwards, they accepted my application, and the cash. I'm in. All I have to do now is sew the dress, and find a model." Eddie stopped at a stop light and glared over at Dennis, still staring at his phone. "What's the news on Waylon?"

"Well, I met Lisa. What a real sweetheart," said Dennis. Eddie exhaled through his nose as he accelerated at the green light. "Apparently, she's marrying some new guy, and they are convinced Waylon ran off because of work stress and wedding problems."

"She believes he ran away because of work? What kind of job did this guy have?"

"I looked him up," said Dennis, turning his phone around to show Eddie.

"I can't look at that, I'm driving," growled Eddie.

"You heard of the Murkoff Corporation? Apparently, Waylon Park was one of their I.T. guys, designed some new software for the company. He's still listed as working there on their official corporate page, though maybe that's outdated since Lisa said he was fired…"

"Waylon is a software engineer," said Eddie, his tone slightly awed. "That's rather impressive. No wonder he was able to use the web so well when it came to selling those antiques and starting up a shop website."

"Company website says he went to Berkeley. I had to look it up, apparently it's a pretty prestigious kind of university."

"While this is very interesting, did they mention why they weren't trying to find him?" asked Eddie, glaring at the traffic as he merged onto the highway.

"She said he's done this before. And shit went bad with the program, so they assume he skipped town. She said he's rich. And weirdly, that his credit cards were active over in New York City last month."

"Was there no one else you could contact?" asked Eddie.

"No living family, his ex-fiancee is marrying his ex-boss, and could care less about him," said Dennis, sighing as he tapped away at his phone. "Heartless assholes."

Eddie realized he was gripping the steering wheel far too hard, and had to force himself to release it. The truck swerved slightly on the highway before he could correct it. "So, Waylon has forgotten his past, and his past has forgotten about him?"

"Poor guy. Can you imagine? When he finally regains his memory, and finds out his boss fucked his girl, and fired him, and no one even cared where he was for months and months…"

"It's a disgusting injustice…"

"Said the man who convinced Waylon he was married, and put him to work, for free, in his shop…"

"That was then. This is now. I would come clean if I could—if it wouldn't hurt him. Way is so…"

"Yeah, we all know you're in love with him…"

"In…oh, hardly. I am quite fond of him, and I enjoy his company, and I think he is a wonderful person with a good heart, but I am constantly questioning whether he truly is this person. Somewhere inside, he's also a rich, conceited bastard. Once he regains his memories, he'll resume his past life, and leave for good."

"And you're okay with that?" asked Dennis.

"I have to be," said Eddie, shrugging as he hit the turn signal and prepared to change lanes. "I only want him to be happy."

"Well, I found out he's got a friend. Some reporter named Miles Upshur. He works as a copy editor. I looked him up and called, but he was out of the office. Got his cell number and tried that, but no answer, and his apartment doorman wouldn't let me in."

"You've been busy," said Eddie under his breath, glancing where Dennis was sitting, head against the window, staring at his phone.

"Yeah, well, maybe you're not the only one who wants Waylon to be happy," said Dennis. "And I'm starting to question whether you should be the one making decisions regarding said happiness, since you obviously biased."

Eddie nodded as he stared at the road. There was a long bout of silence as Eddie concentrated. Dennis was absorbed in his phone.

"Dammit, my phone just died. Do you have a charger?" asked Dennis. Eddie's flat stare and lack of response was his answer. He slouched down, pouting as he glared out the window.

"What if he's happier with me," asked Eddie, finally.

"Happier…than what?"

"Happier, living with me, in Leadville, than he was in Denver. Maybe he would stay," said Eddie.

Dennis chuckled and shook his head. "Everything you've done, the good and the bad, will change in his mind. Become dark. Twisted. He'll likely hate everything about you. I mean, all you've done is lie to him."

It was a harsh reality. The type of reality that Frank would soften and dance around to avoid hurting Eddie's feelings. Dennis never worried about anything like that.

"Maybe, I could try telling the truth…"


	10. Chapter 10: Revelation

**Chapter 10: Truthful Lies**

The sun was already setting, when Eddie pulled up to his house. The dogs were conspicuously absent from the yard, and he assumed they would be inside with Waylon. Through his constant treats, Waylon had won the hearts of the beasts through their stomachs. Eddie walked into the house and immediately paused. "Darling?"

"Eddie," said Waylon from the kitchen. He walked into the living room wearing a short, silky nightie. "I did some more cleaning while I waited for you to get home."

"I can see that," said Eddie, his eyes scanning the room. The living room, hallway, and kitchen were all cleaned and clear of boxes. It was all happening so fast.

"Another check came, and it's even bigger than the last. The money's gonna help the shop—help us," said Waylon. "I don't know how we were before I landed in the hospital, but Eddie…we weren't living well. The house is run-down to the point of being dangerous. You told me that we lost all of our photographs in a fire, and yet some of those boxes were _filled_ with papers. It's like stacking up kindling!"

Eddie frowned, staring around. There was a lot more space without the boxes. It was especially nice having a place to eat at a table instead of always eating on the couch. Still, it was all changing and it left him with an unsteady feeling.

"The dogs have hardly any room," said Waylon, "and there was no healthy food in the kitchen. I'm trying to fix all of this." Waylon walked to where Eddie was standing in the newly cleaned entrance way. He slid his hand up Eddie's chest, stopping to toy with his shirt collar. "I want to work on everything about us, and make it perfect."

"We…are _very_ far from perfect," said Eddie. He gently pulled Waylon's hand away from his collar and held it instead. "We need to have a very serious conversation. There are some things that you deserve to know. I know you can't remember anything, and you have trusted me to tell you the truth, but I failed you. I lied to you."

Waylon's face fell as he stared up into Eddie's eyes. "L-lied? What do you mean, lied?"

"I told you some things that weren't the truth," said Eddie.

Waylon shook his head and his voice turned tremulous. "I am aware of what a lie is, I am asking what type of things did you tell me that were not the truth?"

"I just…I wanted you to think better of me," said Eddie, pulling Waylon's hand as he led him over to the couch. The sitting area was lovely after it had been cleared of all clutter, and decorated with pillows. "I wanted to avoid forcing any unpleasant facts on you, and causing you unnecessary stress when you were already so fraught about your current condition…"

"Do you have any idea how important it is to me, regaining my memory?" asked Waylon, his voice growing thick. "So many times I doubted myself, because of things you said, but I always thought it was just because I couldn't remember—that's why I thought everything felt wrong. If you were lying…if you were _lying_ to me, to take advantage…"

"I deserve your anger," said Eddie, canting his eyes down and staring at where he still held Waylon's hand. "This isn't easy for me."

"What, admitting you made a mistake?" asked Waylon, a hint of vitriol sneaking into his tone. For the very first time since he had come to stay at Eddie's house, he caught a glimpse of the man Waylon Park had been that day in the shop with Lisa.

"No," said Eddie softly, squeezing Waylon's hand, "…telling another person about myself. Letting another person get close to me…"

Waylon had no response, but his face was still troubled as he waited for Eddie to continue.

"My life," said Eddie, sighing as he settled back on the couch and pulled Waylon's hand onto his thigh, "…I know I told you it was like _Leave it to Beaver_ , but truthfully, it was…closer to something out of a horror film."

Eddie had to pause and look away, focusing on nothing in particular. "When I was a boy, I was abused, physically and...sexually, by my father and his brother." A sharp inhale sounded next to him.

"That's terrible, Eddie," said Waylon, his frown shifting from anger to pity. "No one deserves to be treated that way…"

"It happened over years" said Eddie, his tone growing quiet. "I felt like I did not have any choice but to keep their secrets, or face their wrath. My mother discovered it through her own means, and put a stop to it, immediately. She saved me."

Waylon's face twisted and Eddie guessed he was fighting back tears, though he said nothing.

"All the things in this house that belonged to my mother…it's been painful parting with them. She was my one protection, my saving grace. She stood up for me, even when it meant she took the beating herself, or when we were thrown away, penniless and homeless."

Waylon squeezed Eddie's hand and he realized he had gone quiet, lost in thought. Remembering his mother's cries and screams, and the terrible memories from his childhood. "Sometimes it feels like, without some piece of her around, I'll be alone, again…unprotected." Eddie sighed, bringing Waylon's hand up to his lips to kiss the back of his warm knuckles. "I'm sorry it's been such a trial, dealing with these boxes of junk. I just couldn't bring myself to part with them. I didn't have the strength. Until you."

"Your mother was a great woman, she obviously loved you very much," said Waylon. "I completely understand why you would want to keep the boxes around. But, surely, your mother wouldn't want you living in a house so cluttered it was dangerous? She'd want you to be happy. She sacrificed so much to see you that you had a good life."

"You're right, of course," said Eddie, exhaling. "I also bring it up because…you see, my past makes me very uneasy with intimate male relationships. If I seem to push you away at times, or…"

"I understand," said Waylon, nodding as he took a step closer to Eddie. "I'm sorry if I did anything to make you uncomfortable. I didn't know, and, to be fair, you lied to me, so…"

"No, I am…I am comfortable, with you—now," said Eddie. "I apologize for not being upfront about myself. I don't discuss these things with anyone—not even Frank and Dennis. I spent so long clinging to these boxes, as if destroying them would erase my very memories…"

"If anyone knows how it feels to lose a memory, it's me," said Waylon, lifting his head. Eddie frowned, not meeting his gaze. "But I also know something about starting over. We will keep the best of the items. But you might find that having your memories put away, and starting fresh…well, it can feel good."

Eddie wrapped his arm around Waylon's shoulder, and pulled him closer, pressing their cheeks together on the couch. "I wish you could remember. I wish I could _help_ you remember without…without _ruining_ everything…I just hate thinking about making you sad. I hate thinking I might disappoint you, and break your trust, and make you hate me."

"You don't make me hate you, at all," said Waylon, smiling softly. "Lately, I've begun to think about my memory loss as a blessing."

"Why?" asked Eddie, pulling back enough to look at Waylon's smiling face.

"Because I got to fall in love with you twice," said Waylon, lifting his chin to press his lips to Eddie's. "This isn't the only area I cleaned." Waylon slid his hands around Eddie's neck. "I cleaned the bedroom, too." He paused to wet his lips. "I want to share the bed tonight."

It took a few moments for Eddie to remember to respond. He nodded his head, quickly. "Yes, you should sleep in the bed, if that's what you want."

"That's not all that I want," said Waylon. The look he gave Eddie when their eyes locked left no question.

"Darling...What if there are more secrets?" asked Eddie.

"Then you'll tell me—when you're ready."

Eddie stood up and stared down where Waylon sat, brow creased and a tiny frown on his face. Eddie bent down, slid an arm under Waylon's legs and the other behind his back, picking him up easily, and cradling him against his chest.

Eddie knew Waylon would have been hurt if he had explained the full extent of his deception. The look of betrayal when Eddie admitted to lying had been enough to convince him he did not want to see that expression again. A small voice somewhere noted that he should confess and accept the consequences.

But if he could show Waylon how he felt. If he could open up, and be intimate. Not just physically, but sharing his true self with Waylon. Maybe that was the only way to show Waylon how he truly felt, and the only chance at having any hope of a future together.

It was a short walk to the bedroom, but it felt much too long. Eddie hurried into the room, but took his time laying Waylon down gently, as though afraid he might break if jostled. Eddie crawled onto the bed beside Waylon and kissed him, slowly. Eddie took his time, running his hands over the silky fabric of Waylon's short nightgown, drawing out soft gasps and breathy moans.

Eddie enjoyed the feel of the hard planes of Waylon's chest, and the soft curves of his stomach. There was no denying his manhood considering the tent under his short skirt, announcing his lack of undergarments. Eddie thought Waylon's manliness was only enhanced by the delicate garment.

Eddie diverted his eyes from the erotic display and noticed that the sheets were fresh, the pillows fluffed, and Dennis' birthday gift to Waylon sat out on the nightstand. Condoms. Lube. Had Dennis known it would end that way, or had it really been an innocent joke? Regardless, Eddie was thankful for the supplies.

"Be gentle, it's my first time," said Waylon. His tone light, but Eddie could read the underlying nerves.

No force on earth could have convinced Eddie to move quicker as he savored every moment of exploring Waylon's body. Fingers trailed over smooth calves and soft thighs. He carefully mapped out all of the definition in Waylon's chest and shoulders, appreciating the toned muscles there. Finally, Eddie hooked a finger around the nightgown's straps and pulled it over his head, and out of the way. He relished the sight of a blushing, naked Waylon on his bed.

A pained noise escaped Eddie's lips as he gazed down, running fingertips across bare, flushed skin. He leaned in and pulled a tan nipple into his mouth, nipping gently until Waylon gasped. His touch was teasingly light as he ran his fingers up Waylon's thigh and kissed further down Waylon's chest and abdomen. Eddie's fingers grazed against Waylon's neatly groomed pubic hair.

It was obscene—the noise that came from Waylon. The sight of him with his erection swaying and ruddy-turned on because of Eddie. Somewhere, his brain reminded him of the impropriety of the situation, but in the end, desire won out.

Eddie's clothing had become increasingly uncomfortable, but the idea of breaking contact with Waylon, even for a second, pained him. With a frustrated grunt, Eddie pulled away, and opened his shirt so quickly a button popped off. Eddie was about to slip the shirt off, but was stopped short by a breathless noise from Waylon.

Eddie's hands stilled the moment he saw Waylon. Brown eyes were glued on Eddie, his mouth open and panting, and his hand wrapped around his own erection. He pumped his fist slowly while watching Eddie undress. The idea and the sight made Eddie throb.

Eddie slid off the shirt, but slower, watching Waylon's every reaction. Watching him as he touched himself was almost unbearable for Eddie. It was agony to go slow when he wanted so badly to get back on top of Waylon. After an eternity, Eddie's underwear were slid off and he crawled back onto the bed.

"You look even better than I imagined," whispered Waylon before the two began kissing again.

"You imagined me naked?" asked Eddie, when they broke momentarily to breathe. Waylon's answer was another deep kiss, stealing Eddie's thoughts away.

Kissing Waylon felt like experiencing an epiphany—that Eddie had found exactly how he wanted to spend the rest of his days. The friction between them as they kissed, and sighed, pressing their bodies flush against one another. Eddie might have been satisfied just with holding Waylon and being so close, but the rising pitch in Waylon's moans spoke otherwise.

"I don't much remember how," said Waylon, his voice a breathy whine, "sorry to make you do all the work…"

Eddie knew his face must show his nervousness. He had to roll away from Waylon slightly to reach for the bottle of lubricant. He held it in his hand, staring at it for several long seconds.

The bottle was unopened and Eddie struggled slightly, his hands suddenly useless due to his nerves. Waylon smiled softly at him, waiting patiently as he lay on his back pushed up on his elbows. Eddie could feel Waylon's eyes, watching his every move, until finally Eddie managed to squeeze out a generous amount onto his fingers. He finally turned to fully face Waylon again on the bed.

Eddie was at a loss for words, but Waylon seemed to be operating on some instinctive level. His eyes were heavily lidded as he brought his knees up, spreading himself wide for Eddie's eyes. Eddie gulped as he reached his hand down and began tentatively feeling around the area. Waylon's cock was already weeping when Eddie started rubbing along his perineum and finally tracing the lined edges of his hole.

Waylon's breath hitched at the feeling of the cool lubricant, causing Eddie to stop short. He stared up at Waylon, a serious expression on his face.

"Let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable…"

"I trust you, Eddie."

The movement of Eddie's finger halted for a brief moment at the wording. _Trust_. He should not touch Waylon that way—he should not continue to keep him in the dark about his past. He should leave, and…

Waylon's hand wrapped around his wrist and urged his hand.

"Please…" said Waylon. The pleading tone sent a surge of need through Eddie's gut.

Eddie leaned over and kissed Waylon as he pressed harder, one slick finger breaching his muscular ring. Waylon moaned—free of any pain or discomfort. He broke the kiss as his eyes closed, and his head dropped back. It was a delicious sight.

Every different movement created a new sound to escape Waylon's lips or an expression of euphoria Eddie had never seen him wear before. Eddie's fingers continued to push deeper, exploring the hot feel of Waylon's insides, spreading lubricant, and gently preparing his hole.

More lubricant. Eddie was not sure how much would be enough, but he knew he could not—under any circumstances—hurt Waylon. No. He needed to keep his impulses under careful control. It would be a mistake to release his self restraint and take Waylon the way his instincts desired. Hard. Fast.

Soon two fingers were sliding in and out with ease. Eddie stared as he fingers disappeared, spreading apart slightly, watching the tiny gape created by his actions. He was so entranced he did not realize that Waylon's eyes were opened and glaring at him.

"Would you hurry up," said Waylon, mouth open and panting as he stared. "I'm ready for you to fuck me."

"Darling," said Eddie, not withdrawing his fingers, but rather pushing them deeper with a rough thrust, "such language."

"You're teasing me," said Waylon, gnawing on his lower lip as he squirmed on Eddie's fingers. "I want it—now."

Without a word, Eddie withdrew his fingers and positioned his body between Waylon's thighs. He was anxious to line up and feel that heat tightening around his cock, instead of his fingers. Waylon's eyes flew open and he reached for the package of condoms.

"Do you not want to use protection?" asked Waylon, breathlessly.

"Oh, uh, right," said Eddie, frowning as he glared at the end table. "Um, Dennis had no way of knowing but, I'm actually, well, you see, latex causes a terrible reaction in my skin, and I…"

"Latex allergy," said Waylon, looking nervous for a brief moment as he glanced up. Eddie knew his face was likely burning with shame.

"That's no big deal," said Waylon. "I'm sorry I had forgotten. But, just one second…" Waylon grabbed the bottle of lubricant instead.

Eddie waited, watching with interest, as Waylon coated his hand and stroked the shiny liquid along Eddie's length until it was dripping with lube. His slick hand felt even better than the night in the shop. Eddie thought it might be overkill, but he smiled softly at Waylon. Of course he was nervous, too. It was his first time—that he could remember. Had he been with men before? Eddie pushed that thought out quickly and focused on aiming himself at the intended target.

Once the head was lined up, Eddie experimented by sliding it back and forth across Waylon's hole. He was mesmerized by how easily he slid across the slick hole, and the feel of those ridges and grooves against his sensitive tip.

"Please," whimpered Waylon, and Eddie looked up into his eyes. Their eyes remained locked to one another as Eddie finally pushed in, gentle and slow.

"You're really deep," gasped Waylon, eyes squeezed shut.

"I'm going deeper," said Eddie, his voice tight. "Are you alright? Does it hurt?"

"It's different," said Waylon, peeking out of one eye. "But, I think I like it. Do it all the way."

At that reassurance, Eddie sank into Waylon's heat until their hips were flush together, taking the time to pause and breathe along the way.

Eddie gave a long exhale before leaning down to kiss Waylon, hard. All of the frustration and desire he held back flowed through the kiss until Waylon was whimpering and his thighs gripping tight to Eddie's sides.

The taste of Waylon on his lips made it too tempting to thrust forward, drawing out delicious moans and swallowing them whole. Gentle. He tried to remember how to go slow—how to savor—but there was a tight need growing inside of him. Eddie's hips pushed forward with newfound vigor. His chin hit his chest as he broke the kiss and closed his eyes.

Nothing was scary, and nothing felt wrong. Eddie slid in and out with a quick, hard rhythm. The slapping sounds and helpless moans spurred him on until he was rutting mindlessly into Waylon. Eddie was afraid to look—afraid he might see Waylon looking frightened, or pained.

But when Eddie cracked opened his eyes, he saw Waylon's eyes blown, and drool dripping from the corner of his mouth as he moaned senselessly. Eddie's hand immediately flew to Waylon's hair, gripping tightly, pulling his head back. Eddie adjusted his posture, looming over Waylon before resuming his thrusts, impaling Waylon with pounding forcing.

Waylon continued to respond positively. His hips bucked off the bed to meet Eddie's frenzied movements. His hands moved of their own volition, gripping the sheets, clawing at Eddie's chest, and grasping at his neck for better leveraged. Every enthusiastic thrust was met with encouragement.

Eddie moved his weight to one arm and moved his free hand to wrap around Waylon's length, finding it achingly hard and leaking precome. Waylon moaned and thrust into Eddie's fist, each raise of his hips pushing him further onto Eddie's cock simultaneously.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm going to come." Waylon's voice was much higher than usual, his body writhing beneath Eddie. The nonstop stream of groans and grunts was music to Eddie's ears.

"Let me fill you up," said Eddie, through his own labored breathing. The sentiment caused Waylon to groan and dig his blunt nails into Eddie's back. New slickness dripped between Eddie's fingers.

The pulsing from Waylon's muscular ring caused Eddie to thrust faster, through the restricting grip. He grunted and dropped his head, foreheads connecting as he spilled, the new wetness assisting his movements until he was spent.

Waylon pushed himself up enough to wrap his arms around Eddie's neck and hold tight. "How did I get so lucky?" Eddie felt frozen, hovering on the bed with Waylon clinging to his neck. "I knew it-we _are_ good in bed."

"You remember us being in bed together?" asked Eddie, still slightly dazed from his climax.

"No, but I know you were trying to give me space, but I could tell, or just imagine, that you and me would be good together. And we are."

"Are you alright?" asked Eddie, leaning down as Waylon released his neck and sank back onto the mattress. "It wasn't...too rough?

"I've never remembered being more alright in my life," said Waylon with a tired chuckle. "You could have been rougher."

Eddie just shook his head, pulling back. He watched as he withdrew, taking in the sight of his essence dripping from Waylon. "I've never been with anyone that way, before you. I've never felt this way about anyone."

"I know I don't have any memories, but somehow, I just _know_ , that I've never felt anything like this, either," said Waylon. "You don't mind then? If I sleep here tonight?"

Eddie hummed quietly. "Yes, tonight," said Eddie, leaning in to kiss Waylon's hair, "and tomorrow. And the next night. And every night from now, until you leave…"

"I'd never leave you, Eddie."

Cleanup would have to wait, because once Eddie rolled to his side and pulled Waylon's warmth against his chest, he was lost. They fell asleep, curled up against one another.


	11. Chapter 11: Refresh

**Chapter 11: Refresh**

"Upshur."

"Hey, bro," came an unfamiliar voice over the phone. "I called before, I heard you're friends with Waylon Park."

"Shit…" Miles muttered under his breath, quickly pushing clutter around on his desk, and grabbing a yellow notepad and a pencil. He glanced at the caller-ID. "This is the Leadville number? You called Lisa White? You have some information about Waylon? Where is he? _Is he safe_?"

"The same thing I always get, ribs and a side of corn, damn," said the voice, sounding much more muffled. There was a shuffling sound before the voice continued, much clearer, "You still there? Hello?"

"Is Waylon alright?" asked Miles.

"What? Yeah. He's fine. Great. How do you know Waylon Park?"

"How do _you_ know Waylon park?" asked Miles.

"I'm a friend of his," said the man on the other end of the line.

Miles let out a long exhale into the receiver. He knew for a fact that Waylon did not have any friends. His eyes narrowed as he pressed his cell harder against his ear, as though it would help him hear better.

"Who are you? What's your name?" asked Miles.

"Yeah, I'm not giving you that," said the man.

"Alright then, Anonymous, you've seen him, where is he? Can I talk to him? I'm looking for him—can you tell me where to find him?"

"Just, hold up, I have some questions…"

"What do you want, then? Money? Dirt on Murkoff? I'm broke, and I don't know anything about that company except that they work their employes half to death. Waylon is a _good guy_ and people are missing him dearly…"

"Really? 'Cause it seemed to me his fiancee didn't give two shits about him, his boss fired him after fucking said fiancee, and he's got no living family."

"That's…" Miles stuttered incoherently for a moment, "I mean, technically that's all true, but Waylon is my best friend…"

"How long have you known him?"

"We met him high school. In detention. Waylon's first, my regular afternoon routine. We hit it off, became best friends, went to college together…I haven't gone over a month without seeing him since I can remember, so if you could just help me find my friend…"

"Maybe he doesn't want to go back," said Anon.

"Whoever you are...listen to me, Waylon tends to run away from problems," said Miles, resting his elbows on his desk as he hunched forward. "But whatever he thinks he can accomplish by running away, it's not working. If he wants to quit his job, that's fine…"

"I thought he lost that job?" asked Anon.

Miles chuckled. "Maybe. He could probably get it back. I mean, they needed him there, paid him a _shit-ton_ of money, and he was in line to be promoted. But he was stressed out about it, the hours were shit, he wasn't respected. If he wants to quit, he can find another job, that's not an issue, but he shouldn't just, give up and disappear because of a little work related issue…"

"What about that disgusting bitch living in his apartment?" asked Anon.

"You met Lisa?" asked Miles, snorting. "My sincerest apologies."

"Not a fan?" asked Anon.

"Hell no," said Miles, shaking his head and tapping his pencil against the notepad. "She was annoying in college, always trying to change Waylon. But after graduation, when she saw all of his prospects, she dug in her claws. And no matter how many times he succeeded, got the job, got the promotion, got the bonus…she still held out for more. Even when they were engaged, she was on the lookout for something better, cheating on him…"

"What a whore," said Anon.

"Agreed," said Miles. "But listen, no matter what Waylon said about Lisa and Murkoff, he has an apartment here, all of his things, his bank accounts, and dammit, _me_ , is a fifteen year friendship not worth at least a phone call? Asshole…" The last part was under his breath.

"I wouldn't take it personal," said Anon.

"How can I not take it personal?" asked Miles, before catching himself and huffing into the phone. "Whatever, this is pointless, if Waylon's in Leadville, _I'm coming to Leadville_ …"

"Who said he was in Leadville?" asked Anon.

"I don't have time for this," said Miles before ending the call and glancing around the work area. It was a slow news day. Trager was out. The chances were good that he could sneak out, unnoticed. Miles had waited long enough.

* * *

The bell above the door jingled, and Dennis waited in the main area. He looked around, frowning. The shop was much cleaner than in the past. He felt slightly out of place in his usual dingy white shirt over stained jeans.

Everything looked more organized and there was a fresh coat of aqua paint on the walls. Decorative mirrors and antique trinkets brightened up the shelf space. A new chalkboard with gorgeous script welcomed him to _Gluskin's Bridal_. Everything felt different—classier. He opened his mouth to call for Eddie, but was stopped by the sound of giggling from the backroom.

"Stop…" came Waylon's voice.

"How can I stop when you're making those noises," said Eddie.

" _Stop_! How are you going to get any sewing done today?"

"You can help me catch up later. Right now, I just want to…"

Dennis slammed his hand down on the service bell situated on the counter. The conversation immediately ceased. Waylon appeared first, wearing a dainty orange dress with matching flats. His blond hair was slightly disheveled, and his cheeks pink. "Hello…uh, Dennis."

"Dennis?" came Eddie's voice before he appeared. His usual uniform of dress pants, button-down shirt, and vest were wrinkled as he fought to smooth his clothing. "What are you doing here?"

"Wanted to talk to you," said Dennis, narrowing his eyes.

"What about?"

"Get over to the Shack," muttered Dennis, walking out the door. The pleasant jingling of the bell contrasted with the brisk manner of Dennis' departure.

Eddie frowned as he watched Waylon flush with embarrassment. He chuckled as he neared, reaching out to gently smooth down one of Waylon's misplaced locks. "I'll be right back. Maybe you could start setting out the fabric? We can cut together when I return, and I can start stitching the bodice."

"Sorry, if I caused you any…"

"No," said Eddie, leaning in to kiss Waylon's cheek. "You've done nothing wrong. I'll be back."

At the Rib Shack, Frank and Dennis were already talking when Eddie arrived and took a seat.

"I'm telling you, man, satellites, Internets, radio-waves. They can track you with anything these days. You're always on your cell phone, they can track you anywhere in the world, man! That's why I refuse to buy one…"

"Explain why you barged into my shop and upset my…"

"Your _what_? Your _fake_ husband?" asked Dennis.

"…I was going to say place of business…" said Eddie, frowning.

"That's a funny thing to call it. I had no idea you were into kinky roleplay," said Dennis, shaking his head.

"What exactly has you so…"

"I know we've been joking about you not fucking that guy, but it was mostly serious," said Dennis. "You can't lie to someone, gaslight them, convince them they're crazy for not remembering you, then start fucking them in the ass. That guy was engaged—to a woman! He's straight!"

"Whoa, wait, you and Way finally got together? Oh, wow, man, I can tell, all that tension is out of your jaw, you look a lot better," said Frank.

"Would you shut up, you're not helping," said Dennis. "You know better, Eddie. You did this for some revenge, fine. We were all in on it. It was funny. But the longer this goes on…"

"The more it seems this could be his new reality," said Eddie. "This could be how he is. He tells me he doesn't remember anything from before, but he knows what he wants _now_. And what he wants now is…"

"A lie," spat Dennis. "Look, if you worked for months to convince me bleach was a fine liquor, and I insisted I wanted to drink it, you can't sit there and watch me die. It's not right, it's a lie—you sold this guy a lie. So he thinks he likes you now, that's nice, but once he remembers…"

" _If_ he remembers," said Frank with a shrug.

"When," Dennis repeated, glaring at Frank. "And _when_ he does, if you've been fucking him…"

"I care about him," said Eddie, softly.

"Yeah, well, I care about him too," said Dennis, sitting back and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "And you don't even know him. I came by to tell you I found someone who does."

"His ex-fiancee? His ex-boss? His deceased relatives…"

"I got in touch with that guy, Miles Upshur. Called in with an anonymous tip, but he somehow could tell I was calling from Leadville. He hung up on me. If I had to wager a bet, I'd say he was on his way here—right now, to look for his pal, Waylon Park."

"How could you do something like that?" asked Eddie, through clenched teeth. He leaned across the table and attempted to grab Dennis' shirt, but Dennis was too quick. He quickly pushed his chair back with his feet, just clear of Eddie's reach.

"You wanted me to find information in Denver," said Dennis, narrowing his eyes. "What changed?"

Eddie's eyes faltered, unable to hold eye contact.

"That's what I thought. You're fucking him." Dennis scoffed and shook his shaved head. "You're not the only one who's warmed up to Way. He's a good guy. Everyone likes him."

"Yeah, he's good people," said Frank, nodding.

"We don't want him to get hurt, anymore than we want you to get hurt. This is going too far," said Dennis.

"What if this friend is another person, like his fiancee, or boss?" asked Eddie. "Another asshole, leeching onto Way in his previous life, taking advantage of him— _hurting_ him?"

"We'll find out when he gets here," said Dennis. "I just wanted to give you a heads up, so you weren't caught with your pants down. Way deserves to know. Then, he can decide if he really wants to be with you."

* * *

"Good afternoon! How are you, today?" asked the gray haired woman sitting behind the desk at the National Mining Museum.

"Busy. I need to speak to someone in charge of weddings at this place," said Miles.

"Oh, well, congratulations! Our events coordinator Angela is in charge of all the events, but she only comes in by appointment on the weekends. Do you have an appointment?"

"No," said Miles, frowning in irritation.

"I can take down your information…"

"Good, listen," said Miles, digging into the pocket of his brown leather jacket, "take my business card, and tell Angela that I am interested in information about Waylon Park. He had a wedding scheduled here for August, and no one's seen him since he was here touring the grounds."

"Oh, goodness! Have the police been notified?" asked the terrified woman.

"No one's sure he didn't leave of his own free will, but I'd still like to take a look around…"

"That'll be twelve dollars," she said, all hint of her earlier concern gone.

"I just want to walk around…"

"Yes, that's what most people do in a museum, and an adult admission is twelve dollars…"

"Bu…wha…look, have Angela call me," said Miles, snatching a brochure, "because I'll be calling her first thing Monday." He glared over at the stack of different brochures detailing local hot spots. "Maybe you can help me with something, though. Do you know a place to get ribs in this town?"

"Oh, there's really only one place in town the locals swear by…"

Miles pulled into the parking lot of The Rib Shack and parked his red Jeep near a visible dumpster with flaking green paint. Classy place. The building was wooden and rickety with several illuminated neon signs advertising different brands of cheap beer. He surveyed the area and stopped when he noticed a shop a short ways down and across the street.

The facade of the building seemed out of date, and the sidewalk was crumbling, but the windows looked freshly cleaned. A sign denoting "Gluskin's Bridal" seemed stylish and newly painted. Through the windows, gowns, suitable for a princess, were displayed on headless mannequins.

Miles used his phone to look up the business establishment and found a website that seemed new, due to the lack of content. The basics were there, though. Contact information for one Eddie Gluskin. Miles had found the tailor shop that Waylon and Lisa had visited the day Waylon disappeared. The tailor they had neglected to pay.

Sudden movement from the shop caused Miles to jump and hunch down slightly to keep his Jeep between him and the distant shop. A tall man with black hair, slicked back on top of his head, opened the door, and led out a woman. She wore an orange dress that fit snugly at the waist, and flared out into a skirt that stopped at the knees, revealing shapely legs.

The man led the woman to an old pickup, and paused before opening the door. He glanced, very obviously, around the location, before pulling the woman into a tight embrace, and kissing her. Miles could not get a good look at the woman but he could tell she had short blond hair and the way her fingers clutched at the man's shirt said she was enjoying the kiss.

The kissing continued, along with touching, and Miles could have sworn he saw a hand travel up the woman's skirt. The two shows no signs of stopping. Miles diverted his eyes, and walked into the Shack.

"What'll you be having, cutie?" asked the plump barkeep, smiling with her perfectly painted on red lips. The embroidered name on her shoulder identified her as Pamela.

"Still happy hour?" asked Miles.

"You betcha," said Pamela.

"Gimme whatever's on draft," said Miles, putting on his most charming smile.

"Budweiser, coming up," said Pamela, tossing her dyed orange hair before sauntering toward the tap.

Miles cased the room while waiting. The Rib Shack was mostly empty. There was a table nearby full of men wearing the same button down shirts sporting the same logo. Another table near the back had two men, one napping, and one glued to a phone screen. A couple of middle-aged women walked in and sat next to him at the bar. Miles smiled, and met their eyes.

"Afternoon," he said.

"Oh, well, hello there," said the first woman, smiling. Her friend rolled her eyes and leaned over the bar, attempting to catch the bartender's attention.

"I'm Miles. You ladies live around here?"

"Valerie," said the smiling woman, her hair almost multicolored from all the different highlights in her short, brown hair. "I'm from Oklahoma. Moved here with my ex-husband. I work across the street, _Cuts to Dye For_. You have gorgeous hair, mind if I touch it?"

Miles gave a nervous grin as the woman leaned forward without waiting for an answer. She proceeded to run her fake nails through his hair, sifting it into some semblance of a style. "Who cuts your hair, sugar?"

"I'm from out of town," said Miles, politely pulling away from Valerie's quick fingers. "I'm looking for my friend. He was visiting here a while back, and hasn't been seen since. Do you know anyone named Waylon Park?"

The woman frowned and her friend sporting an auburn ponytail turned with sympathetic green eyes. "That's awful."

"Can't say I've heard that name, no," said Valerie. "And it's a small town, everybody pretty much knows everybody…"

"It's irritating…" added the second woman.

"What does your friend look like?" asked Valerie.

Miles smiled at the question and reached into his brown leather jacket, producing the photograph of him and Waylon at a Dave Matthews Band concert from 2002. It was an older picture, and their hairstyles had changed, but otherwise, the resemblance was still there. Valerie and the other woman huddled close and stared at the photograph intently.

"Sorry Mike, I don't recognize him. You two sure are handsome though, how old are you?"

"Um, it's Miles, and I'm twenty nine…"

"He's too young for you, Valerie…"

"Shut up, Heather, young men are into older women these days, haven't you heard of cougars…"

"Isn't there some upper age limit on cougars?" asked Heather.

Miles avoided looking at the women as they argued, his eyes searching around the restaurant. He honed in on a picture taped to the wall behind the bar. The bartender arrived at that moment with his draft beer. The sound of the glass clunking down onto a paper thin coaster snapped him from his thoughts.

"Who's that?" asked Miles, causing Pamela to turn away from the women and address Miles.

"You needed something else?" she asked, smiling.

"Sorry, just, that picture, who is that?" asked Miles, pointing.

All three women turned to look at the pictures on the back wall. There were several blurry photographs under a painted sign declaring the "Rib Shack Wing Challenge Survivors." There was one large set man with a bald head and small, beady eyes in several of the photographs. Nearby, two blurry photographs showed a blond haired man, face smeared in sauce, and brown eyes that were hauntingly familiar…

"Oh," said Pamela, chuckling to herself. "That's Way!"

"Waylon?" asked Miles, sitting up straighter and pushing his beer slightly, causing a small amount to slosh out.

"Wayde Gluskin," said Pamela, enunciating clearly.

"Gluskin? Wait, the same as the tailor?" asked Miles.

"Yeah, Wayde Gluskin is Eddie's husband," said Valerie.

"Husband? But…" Miles held his tongue, afraid of looking like the town gossip. "Look, I don't mean to start rumors, but I just looked over at the tailor's shop, and I saw a tall man…behaving inappropriately…with a woman."

Valerie and Heather shared a knowing look, and Pamela shook her head. In unison, all three women broke out in giggles.

"You sure about that?" asked Valerie, with a smirk.

"Wayde Gluskin likes to wear dresses," said Heather, between giggles. "Looks damn good in them too…"

"Better than me," chimed in Pamela, with a sigh.

"Great fashion sense. So well dressed all the time…" said Valerie.

"And with Eddie so handsome…" said Pamela.

"…and protective of his man…" said Valerie.

"They're adorable," sighed Heather. "I'm so jealous."

"How long have they been together?" asked Miles.

"Oh, a while," said Heather. "I only met him a month back, but they were married for a year, I heard. I guess they weren't as public back them. I can see why. Small town, people tend to stare at two men holding hands, not to mention if one of them is wearing a dress and pearls."

"You've talked to Wayde?" asked Miles.

"Oh, sure," said Valerie, smiling. "We were at his birthday party just last month! Hell of a party."

"I watched him eat those hot wings a couple weeks ago," said Heather, laughing. "Hilarious! He got the sauce all over himself, and poor Eddie got it in his mouth from kissing him, and it was a fiasco…"

"Way's a riot," said Pamela, smiling. "Always laughing, and being crazy. He rides motorcycles! Like a stunt-man."

The women all began to giggle and discuss events at the Shack involving Eddie and Wayde Gluskin, but Miles stopped listening.

Could it be that he missed his friend so badly he was grasping at imaginary leads? Waylon was a reserved man. He had never been much for parties—even in college. He had a weak stomach, and refused to eat anything remotely spicy. And a motorcycle? Waylon's favorite hobby was hiking for a reason. He hated anything motorized, finding it too dangerous. He was cautious, shy, and his sexuality was straight as an arrow.

There was no way this Wayde Gluskin could be Waylon Park. Other than a coincidental name similarity, they had nothing in common. And Waylon's birthday wasn't until December.

"You okay, guy?" asked Pamela, frowning from behind the bar. Miles snapped to attention and picked up his beer. He gulped the beer in a single motion and set the empty glass on the counter

"I'm alright," said Miles, standing up and digging into his pockets, "just looking for my friend." He pulled out a twenty and a business card, setting both on the table. "If you find any information about Waylon Park, could you give me a call?"

"Oh, sure, we're a tight community, we'll find him if he stops here," said Valerie, with a smile. "That's him in the picture?"

"Yeah," said Miles. "Five foot ten with blond hair, brown eyes, enjoys hiking, computers…he's shy, but a hard worker, good with details, very organized. He's been missing for a month, and was last seen in Leadville. A former customer of Gluskin's, and supposed to be getting married next month at the Mining Museum. Before he vanished…"

"Oh, you poor man," said Heather, frowning. "I hope you find your friend."

"Thanks," said Miles.

* * *

Eddie could not focus on his work at the shop. It was quiet without Waylon around. Work was not the same without Waylon's sidelong glances and knowing smiles. Eddie's desire to work on the dress waned when he thought that Waylon, his muse, might not be around when he entered it into the competition. He wanted Waylon there, to share in his success—or comfort him in failure.

Eddie had sent Waylon home for the day, under the guise of needing more housework done. Waylon was all too eager to continue cleaning and organizing their home.

The sound of the door opening jolted Eddie from his thoughts, but it was only the UPS man with a delivery of fabric. Eddie felt foolish as he brought the fabric to the backroom for inspection. Jumping at every sound. Dennis did not really know if this person was truly on their way. Maybe Miles Upshur was as disinterested in Waylon's whereabouts as the rest of the people in his old life.

"Hello?"

Eddie's posture straightened as he froze in the act of inspecting a large bolt of cream colored satin. He set his jaw and marched out into the main area, almost walking directly into a tall man with brown hair wearing a brown leather jacket and gray shirt over jeans. Eddie put on his most professional attitude, before approaching the man.

"May I help you, sir?" asked Eddie.

"Hi," said the man, giving a short wave. "I'm from out of town. I've heard a lot about this place."

"I'm pleased to hear that," said Eddie, his business mask firmly in place.

" Actually, it was my best friend that told me, I believe he was using you for some wedding dresses over a month ago?"

"Ah, that could be, we have been rather busy lately," said Eddie.

"You'd probably remember this guy," said Miles. "His fiancee, she was a bit of a cunt." Eddie's eyebrows shot up at the crude language. "They caused you some small amount of problems."

"I deal with many difficult customers, sir," said Eddie. "It's part of the job. Every bride feels that she is the most important woman to have ever graced my shop."

"The definitely fits Lisa, yeah," said Miles, chuckling. "My friend's name is Waylon Park."

"I'm sorry, I don't usually discuss other customers as this would be a breach of customer confidentiality," said Eddie. "Is there something else I can help you with today, Mister…"

"You can call me Miles," he said, fishing into his pocket and retrieving a photograph. "You recognize him?"

Eddie stared down at the faded picture. He recognized Miles, though his hair was much shaggier, falling into his eyes. Waylon was younger, too, a huge smile across his face, and Miles' arm around his shoulders. They were wearing similar t-shirts and the background was a large sea of people in front of a stage, though the act was obscured by a large lens flare.

Waylon went to concerts? It seemed so out of line with Eddie's imagination about the stuffy, whipped tech. He frowned at the photo.

"Sorry, it's an old picture, no one really prints them out much these days. I have more on my Facebook, I can show you if you want to see…"

"That's fine. I recognize him. Waylon Park and Lisa White. They retained my services, then backed out of their contract due to a disagreement over the color of the bridesmaid dresses. They cost a considerable amount of money. I can't afford to prosecute, and was forced to take a sizable loss."

"Well, someone called a while back, and spoke with Lisa, saying they had information. The same number that called me this morning with a tip asking if anyone was looking for Waylon Park."

"And this person mentioned me, and this shop?" asked Eddie, adopting an inquisitive expression. He did not want to have to outright lie to the man, but he also did not wish to lead him straight to Waylon.

Springing a meeting like that onto Waylon so suddenly could cause him unnecessary stress. Eddie tried to convince himself that everything was for Waylon's benefit, and not for his own selfish reasons.

"Well, I know Waylon had some appointments in Leadville a couple months ago. I was supposed to go with him and Lisa, to approve some wedding locations, but I had work. And no one's seen Waylon since that day," said Miles.

Eddie listened, keeping his face trained on an expression of polite interest. It was a necessary skill in his line of work. Miles sighed as he met Eddie's eyes.

"I haven't seen anything on the news, about a missing person," said Eddie, allowing mild concern to creep into his tone.

"Oh, well, no, Lisa doesn't think he's actually missing, she suspects…well, something else," said Miles, humming as he pressed his lips into a thin line. He reached a hand up to stroke at his scruffy chin. "Leadville is a small town, right?"

"Certainly…"

"Well, this may sound strange, but, have you seen anything around town resembling Waylon? He's about five foot teen inches tall, not the most muscular guy, blond hair, brown eyes, really into hiking and computers…"

"Hiking?" asked Eddie.

"Yeah, walking around outside, he goes out of town almost every weekend to hit some trails."

"Really? What other type of activities does he enjoy?" asked Eddie.

"Uh, sorry, but how is that relevant…" Miles trailed off and narrowed his gray eyes. "Well, I'll be asking around town today. I worry that he's missing and in some kind of trouble. And you're one of the last people to have seen him, alive…"

"Have you checked with the wedding venue as well?" asked Eddie, fighting to keep himself from looking nervous. Could he really leave this guy assuming Waylon had abandoned his life? That Waylon was possibly in some physical danger?

"I'm still working on the museum, it's where Lisa last saw him, but I'll be looking into every lead," said Miles. "Do you happen to remember anything else about that last time you saw him? Did he say anything strange? Was there anything strange about Lisa?"

Eddie frowned and sighed. "They refused the bill based on the fact that Ms. White disapproved of the color despite having personally signed off on the choice. Mr. Park threatened to invoke Murkoff Corporation's legal department against me if I attempted to recoup any of my losses. He said he would tell anyone that would listen that my shop was inferior quality and would go to New York to find a better dress, though I can assure you, he would be hard pressed to find anyone willing to work for these prices in New York…"

"Wait, what?" asked Miles.

"My prices are quite reasonable, considering the quality of my work, and the speed with which…"

"No, sorry, back up, you said New York. Waylon told you he was going to New York?" asked Miles, gray eyes narrowing at Eddie as though trying to see through some kind of misdirection.

Eddie raised an eyebrow, "Well, yes, he did say that, but I took it as an idle threat…"

"No, that's perfect, thanks a lot," said Miles, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and rifling around.

"I'm awfully sorry, I wish I could be of more assistance to you," said Eddie, his trained expression of neutrality still plastered to his face. "If I come across any information, I'd be happy to pass it along, if you could leave your contact information…"

"If you find anything, or remember anything else he might have said, please, give me a call." Miles placed a business card down on the shop counter before walking out the front doors. "Sorry again, about Lisa. I disliked her from the start. But, no matter what Waylon did or said to you, he's actually a really great guy. The best, actually."

As Miles walked out to a red Jeep in the parking lot and drove away, Eddie felt his conviction waning. Maybe there was a person out there that cared for Waylon. Could Eddie really live with himself if he kept Waylon separated from his best friend? What would Waylon say if he one day remembered Miles, and found out Eddie had refused to help him?

* * *

A/N: Thanks for all the kind reviews, I am thankful to have people reading here! Was anxious about this chapter and like next week's much better than this one so, stay tuned lol


	12. Chapter 12: Memory Bank

**Chapter 12: Memory Bank**

"There's some lady on the line," said Trisha, walking into the small cubicle area that housed Miles' desk and computer. "I told her I'm not your secretary, but she keeps calling back. Repeatedly. This has been going on for over forty minutes."

"Take a message," said Miles, not looking away from his screen. He had silenced his office phone to assist with his concentration, ignoring the flashing red light indicating an incoming call.

"Yeah, except, I tried that, and she won't take no for an answer," said Trisha. Miles continued to ignore her presence, staring at the list of items on the screen. Credit card charges made to Waylon's account over the last two months. It was exhausting. Miles reached blindly for his pencil to jot down another note, eyes still glued.

Trisha sighed loudly before leaning over Miles, bumping his shoulder in the process, and grabbing his phone. She aggressively pressed the call-accept button. "Here, talk to him," she said curtly before shoving the phone against Miles' ear, hard enough to bruise.

"Ow hey…" said Miles, holding the phone up as he swiveled in his chair to watch Trisha stomp away. Her black skirt was entirely too short for the workplace, and when she turned around and caught Miles staring at her, she sneered and shook her head.

"Where's Waylon?" demanded the voice on the phone.

"Where's…Lisa?" asked Miles, pausing. " Why are you harassing my secretary?"

"She told me, repeatedly, she is not your secretary…"

"Okay then why are you harassing _me_?"

"Where's Waylon? I need to talk to him," said Lisa.

"Quite honestly, I'm _astounded_ that it took you almost two months before you actually started trying to find your fiance…"

"Shove it. I would think you were in on this bullshit, except you're not that good of an actor, and I know you were looking for him, too. Where is he? He's not answering my calls."

"He's not answering _anyone's_ calls, Lisa, he's fucking _missing_ , he could be kidnapped, or dead…"

"Oh please, stop being so dramatic, he's alive, he canceled our credit card, that's why I need to talk to him, so if you know…"

"I canceled the credit cards," said Miles.

"How…wha…why?" Lisa spluttered incoherently over the line. "How could you do something like that you asshole! I'm trying to plan a wedding, here!"

"I'm trying to lure him out of wherever he's hiding, and I figured cutting off his funds was the best way to go about it. I'm going through the recent purchases now, actually, and…wow, just, I am impressed. Tell me, how _does_ someone spent over _four thousand dollars_ on one purchase at _Neiman Marcus_? Did they start selling cars?"

"That information is confidential to Waylon and myself, I am calling the company right now, my new card better be here by the end of the week…"

"Still not concerned at all about Waylon?" asked Miles, a deep sigh escaping before he could stop it.

"I really _do_ need to speak with him about the apartment," said Lisa, mumbling as though the mere thought disgusted her.

"I went and visited your friend in Leadville, Eddie Gluskin…"

"Bleh, that disgusting tailor, why bother?" asked Lisa.

"Well, he was one of the last people, along with _you_ , to see Waylon alive, and he had a motive to want to hurt him. He let something interesting slip while I was in his shop. Didn't you say that you tracked Waylon's cell phone to New York City?"

"Yeah, when he first didn't show up, I could use an App to find him in New York City, but he doesn't come up anywhere anymore…"

"Gluskin said Waylon had threatened to go to New York City to find you a better dress…"

"I suppose he had, but we didn't really make any concrete plans, it was more of an idle threat to the tailor…"

"There's tons of charges here. _Neiman Marcus_ , _Saks Fifth Avenue_ , who even goes to _Macy's_ fifteen times in a month?"

"Jeremy has a lot of business meetings in the evenings, I'm required to dress appropriately…"

"So make _Jeremy_ pay for it? Jesus Christ. In the middle of this, frighteningly wasteful spending, there's a few interesting spots. A charge to a bus company on the day Waylon disappeared, several large cash advances from ATMs in New York City. Cash-impossible track, like he didn't want to be found…"

"So many you should take the hint?" said Lisa, the sneer evident in the way she spoke.

"There's one charge here that strikes me as rather odd…did Waylon ever indicate to you he had any interest in taking up Judo?"

The laughter on the other side of the phone was so loud that Miles had to pull the ear piece away from his ear to prevent temporary deafness. He jotted down the name of the Judo club in New York City which had charged Waylon, weekly, for the past months.

"Stop spending Waylon's money, Lisa. If he's not your fiance anymore, then quit robbing him blind."

Miles hung up the phone, louder than necessary, and went back to his computer to do some research before he needed to finish up his actual work.

* * *

"Of course it's fine for you to go with anyone you choose, darling, but I would have appreciated some type of warning…"

"Why?" asked Waylon, tilting his head. He wore fitted red pants that were cuffed at the ankle along with white tennis shoes and a sleeveless white blouse. A red scarf was tied around his hair and a black helmet held under his arm. "Am I not…allowed to go somewhere without you?"

"No, it's not that, of course not, but…"

"I'm not allowed to hang out with my friends?"

"I want you to enjoy your friend, that's not it, it's just…"

"What then?" asked Waylon. His hip jutted out to the side and he planted his fist on it and stared down Eddie.

"Motorcycles are dangerous…"

"Were you always this ridiculous?" asked Waylon, chuckling. "I'm a professional stunt-man daredevil. You should be used to this."

"I will never, ever, be used to it…" said Eddie. Waylon shook his head, shouldering a small satchel he had packed in the house.

"You said you needed some time today to finish up the gown," said Waylon, his irritation dissolving into something softer. "I'm just trying to give you some time to yourself. Get lots of work done, okay?"

"Alright," said Eddie, fighting to keep the sulky tone away from his voice. No one appreciated a grown man pouting.

"See you tonight," said Waylon, leaning in for a quick peck before walking toward where his repaired motorcycle waited. Dennis was straddling his own bike, looking intimidating in a battered leather jacket and dull black helmet.

Frank, on the other hand, looked ridiculous in his denim jacket over denim pants ensemble with a helmet that made his head look lopsided. Frank waved at Eddie and frowned when he received no return wave.

"Be careful," Eddie called out to Waylon as he put on his helmet and smiled back at Eddie. Waylon straddled his motorcycle and gripped the handlebars while waiting for Frank to climb on behind him.

Eddie was not angry at Waylon—how could he _ever_ be angry at Waylon? He was angry at his friends. How dare they plan an outing with his husband behind his back?

Wait. Waylon was not his husband.

And that was the problem. Eddie knew Dennis disagreed with the way he had handled Waylon's memory problems.

Dennis had been disappointed when he heard from Pamela that Miles Upshur had come to town, and he had missed a chance to size up the man. And he had been livid when he found out Eddie had spoken with him, and sent him away.

Eddie had no idea what his friends would discuss with Waylon on their outing. He could only trust that, no matter what happened, Waylon would return home that night.

* * *

"You're a natural," said Dennis, grinning as Waylon removed his helmet. His blond hair was flattened to his head with sweat, and there was dust smeared across his face, but he was smiling. "I'm impressed."

"Probably not as impressive as when I fractured my ankle jumping those cars?"

"Well, that was impressive, but you were a professional. _Now_ you're just a guy with no memory. It makes it more impressive."

"Thanks Den," said Waylon, frowning down at his outfit. "White was probably a bad choice to wear. Guess I forgot how dirty it can get."

"You wanna borrow my jacket?" asked Frank, jogging up from where he had been sitting. He was taking his turn watching while Dennis and Waylon drove over dirt trails reserved for dirt bikes, motorcycles and four-wheelers.

"Um, no Frank, that's alright," said Waylon.

"What? I don't smell or nothin," said Frank, a hurt frown on his bearded face. He discreetly sniffed himself, just to make sure.

"No, of course not," said Waylon, combing his fingers through his sweaty hair. "It's just that, it's _really_ ugly. And denim on denim? Are you wearing a denim shirt under there, too?"

"Of course?" said Frank. Waylon put a hand up to cover his smile.

Dennis snickered and shook his head, removing his helmet and hanging it from his handlebars as he dismounted and stretched his legs.

"I'm pretty lucky to have you guys as friends," said Waylon, setting his own helmet Dennis had loaned him on his newly restored machine. "What kind of friends were we friends before?"

"Before…" Dennis raised one eyebrow at the question.

"Before I lost my memory," said Waylon. "I know you guys had those pictures, and talked about me, but did we hang out without Eddie? I feel like we get along well."

"Yeah, well, we weren't that close," said Dennis, staring down at the ground.

"Nah, man, sure we were," said Frank, giving a lopsided grin. "We may have been Eddie's friends first, but we like you. And we like how much Eddie likes you."

"Are you in love with him?" asked Dennis. Waylon chuckled, smoothing out his wrinkled and dirty pants.

"Of course I love my husband," said Waylon.

"But you don't remember anything?" asked Dennis.

"No, I don't remember anything, and I may never remember anything. Everything I do remember since I woke up, though, has all been…well, very nice," said Waylon, blushing.

"He doesn't force you to do anything you don't want to do?" asked Dennis. Waylon blinked.

"What? No, he doesn't force me to do anything, what do you mean?" asked Waylon.

"Nothing sexually?" asked Dennis. Waylon spluttered and coughed in response, his face going as red as his pants.

"I'm not sure why that's your business…"

"It's consensual?" asked Dennis.

"Yes, I have consensual sex with my husband. How about you? Which hand do you use when you jerk it?" asked Waylon, annoyance plain on his face.

Frank guffawed and had to bend over slightly in an attempt to smother the noise. Dennis frowned at both of them.

Waylon walked over to retrieve his satchel and brought it back over. He pulled out a plastic bag and proceeded to dangle it in Dennis' face. Dennis raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Cookies. I baked them. I know you told me that I used to bake for you, and I didn't remember, but I'm trying to become the friend you knew before," said Waylon, smiling. "I hope you like white chocolate and almonds."

Dennis reached into the bag once Waylon opened it and took a cookie, frowning. After considering it a second, he shook his head. "No."

"You don't want it, or you don't like almonds" asked Waylon, his mouth slowly falling into a hurt frown.

"Way, you have to stop doing things just because people told you that's how you are. Don't listen to anyone except yourself. You don't have to just, decide to like Eddie, or gardening, or riding motorcycles, or baking cookies, or wearing dresses. You…you can just be whoever you want to be."

Waylon shook his head, and chuckled softly.

"You really are sweet—worrying about me," said Waylon. "I'm very happy. Even without the memories. I may have lost all of my happy memories, but I lost all of the sad ones, too. I just try to look on the bright side. Trying new things makes me happy. Eddie makes me _very_ happy."

"True love conquers all, man," said Frank, drawing attention to where he was sneaking his own hand into the plastic bag and grabbing for a cookie. Waylon smirked as Frank took a huge bite, crumbs falling into his beard. "Mmmm, hey, you have a real talent!"

Waylon grinned and patted Frank's shoulder, affectionately. Dennis was still staring at his own cookie.

"You never used to bake for me," said Dennis, causing Waylon's smile to fall again, his brows knitting together. "I just told you that because you didn't remember, and I wanted some free, home-baked goods."

"Oh," said Waylon, frowning down at the bag of cookies. "Well, I liked baking them, and I think they taste good, so I guess, no harm done."

"What if Eddie is doing the same thing? What if Eddie is telling you that you like things you used to hate doing? Just to get what he wants."

"I'm not doing anything that I don't want to do. I know this is a weird situation, no one knows how to handle it, I don't know how to handle it, but I'm doing fine. You don't need to worry about me. If you, lied to make yourself sound better than you are, that's fine. I sort of pieced together that you're _not_ the mayor."

Dennis opened his mouth and then shut it as Frank laughed with his mouth full of cookie.

"I just have to live my life, and, when my memories return, I can sort out whatever ignorant tricks you guys were playing. But some things, I can just _feel_ them, and I know they're right," said Waylon.

"Oh yeah? Like, what?" asked Dennis, narrowing his eyes.

"Riding motorcycles," said Waylon, grinning. "I know it's what I used to do, because I feel alive when I'm driving it. I knew it the first time I sat on that borrowed bike-I was meant for this. And…and Eddie. I _know_ I loved him. Because when I'm with him, everything feels right."

Dennis was frowning, and Frank was positively glaring at him.

"Why are you trying to upset him?" asked Frank. "He's got things hard enough. He's happy. Why do you want to make him upset?"

Waylon looked back and forth between the two. "You're not upsetting me, I'm fine, I appreciate you guys looking out for me. But I literally have never remembered a time in my life when I was more happy than I am now…"

Dennis sighed and his shoulders dropped. He brought the cookie up to his mouth and took an angry bite. He was still scowling as he chewed. "This is fucking delicious."

Waylon clapped his hands excitedly. "I thought so too! Okay, I want to go through that last trail again, if we gun it faster over that one ridge, I know we can catch some serious air…"

Waylon dropped his satchel and practically skipped back over to his motorcycle. Frank waited until he was out of earshot to lean in closer to Dennis.

"You can't tell him. It's not your place, man," said Frank.

"Then who's place is it?" asked Dennis.

"You heard what he said, he's happy, you want to ruin that for him?" asked Frank. "Don't you remember how sad he was those first days? He was so depressed I thought he'd try to off himself. And you know all the work Eddie's done to try to find this guy's fiancee, his boss, his home, and it's all painted a pretty ugly picture. You want to tell some guy who doesn't remember his horrible life that it's much worse than he could have imagined?"

"There's gotta be a good way to do this—a gentle way. We just have to figure it out," said Dennis, stalking back toward his own bike. Waylon revved the engine of his motorcycle and motioned for Dennis to hurry up. There was only so much daylight left.

* * *

"We're home!" said Waylon, greeting for the rush of wagging tails and excited whining. Eddie met him at the door, his expression one of trained neutrality. When Waylon only smiled, as usual, and seemed no different than before he left, Eddie dared a chaste kiss on Waylon's cheek.

"Darling, you're filthy," said Eddie, noticing for the first time how utterly covered in dirt Waylon's blouse, pants and exposed skin were. Even his blond hair seemed darker than usual.

"It was a little dirtier than I expected, I'm off to shower," said Waylon, petting each of the dogs, individually, for the exact same amount of pets and kisses before pushing past into the house. The dogs followed him to the bathroom.

Nothing seemed out of place. Which was, in and of itself, out of place.

Eddie stepped out onto the porch where Dennis was standing staring at his phone. Frank was sitting on the other motorcycle, yawning.

"Well?" asked Eddie. He may as well have been talking to himself for the response he received. "Hello?"

"Sup," asked Dennis, barely glancing up from his screen. He was equally covered in dirt and grime, a sweaty smear of mud across his shaved head.

"Well?!" asked Eddie, again. "What happened?"

"It's dirty on the trails, nothing big," said Dennis.

"But…" Eddie shook his head, unsure what to make about the reactions. Frank seemed to have fallen asleep on the back of the bike. Dennis' apathy was normal, but surely Waylon should have had _some_ kind of response if his friends had shared some new insights?

"Did you not tell him, then?" asked Eddie, quietly, in case Waylon was listening.

Dennis' eyes flashed when he glanced up from the phone and considered his friend. He slowly tucked the device away in his back pocket. "Not my place."

"I had assumed that the nature of this outing was for you to have some words with Way, alone, and…"

"The nature of the outing? We were riding bikes on the trails, I told you, nothing big."

"I suppose I assumed incorrectly," said Eddie.

"We need to talk. Soon. Way is a great guy, there's got to be a gentle way to do this without causing him to end up rocking back and forth in some asylum somewhere…"

"I can't imagine a good way to say _I was trying to get even with you and then accidentally fell for him._ It doesn't sound appropriate-or sane, no matter how I phrase it…"

"We'll think of something," said Dennis. "In the meantime, just, be good to him? He's fucking in love with you. It's disgusting."

Eddie watched Dennis saunter back to his own, battered ride and start the entire. The roar of the machine woke up Frank who looked around and waved at Eddie. He shouted something, lost in the noise, and then started up the bike Dennis had repaired for Waylon.

If Dennis could learn to respect and appreciate his strange relationship, perhaps there was a real chance for him and Waylon after all.


	13. Chapter 13: Make a Wish

**Chapter 13: Make a Wish**

"Keep your eyes closed," said Eddie, carefully leading Waylon around a maze of work tables and stacks of fabric in the back room of their shop. It was always considerably warmer in the back due to poor ventilation, though Waylon looked comfortable in his green dress with thin straps.

"I've seen you work on the dress everyday, I don't know why it's such a secret all of a sudden…" said Waylon, keeping his hands firmly over his eyes.

"You haven't seen all the pieces assembled," said Eddie.

Waylon gave an exaggerated sigh, though he was grinning. The day spent riding motorcycles had allowed Eddie the time necessary to finally complete the gown. Eddie carefully led Waylon by the shoulders until they were standing facing a large mannequin wearing the nearly complete dress for the showcase.

"Open them…now."

Waylon dropped his hands from his face, and opened his eyes. He blinked several times as he stared at the gown. The dress was a vision in satin, as white as fresh snow. The corset style bodice laced up the back, but the front was completely decorated with glittering, hand-sewn beading. There were no traditional sleeves, though straps were present with dangling strands of beads giving the impression of a sleeve that glittered and swayed. The skirt in the front was shorter, stopping above the knees, though it lengthened around the sides, coming to a chapel length train in the back.

Waylon almost tripped as he circled around the dress, eyes wide. The back of the garment was equally amazing with beading around the corset back and a very complicated motif of silver thread and hand beading down the back, spreading wider along the train.

"It's gorgeous," said Waylon, smiling so big it hurt his face. "Oh, you were right! The design is edgy enough, while still being classic. The craftsmanship is undeniably amazing. The last two years' winners had added a splash of color, though?"

"That's exactly why I did not," said Eddie. "It's not smart to continue on a trend, you need to _break_ the trend—create a _new_ trend, to win. I guarantee, there will be many entries with bright colors incorporated. Our entry will stand out for its classic style, and stark white color."

"It's great-perfect," said Waylon, his tone reverent. "What needs to be done, now? We have a week to find a model. We need to go online, find out how to go about hiring someone. How long will it take you to do the fitting?"

"I already have a model in mind," said Eddie, causing Waylon to immediately pause and glare.

"What? When did you do that? The model is important!"

"I know," said Eddie.

"It's a decision we should have made together…"

"Well, I made the dress with only one model in mind," said Eddie. He stepped behind the mannequin wearing the gown, and held out his hand. Waylon took his hand, confusion clouding his eyes.

Eddie pulled Waylon by the hand until he was standing behind the dress. Then, he pointed forward. Reflected in a large mirror on the backroom wall was a vision of Waylon, standing behind the dress, as though he were wearing it. Several moments passed before the realization dawned.

"Me?"

"None other."

"No, you've gotta be joking," said Waylon. "It's bad enough I wear dresses around here, I see people staring, I know it's not the norm. I don't want to embarrass our shop, and jeopardize our future, just because you like the way I look in a skirt…"

"I thought you wore this clothing by choice?" asked Eddie.

"Of course it's' my choice," snapped Waylon. "But not many people seem to understand. No one would want to see…to see an ordinary guy like me, up against a group of beautiful women models in the show."

"Why not?"

"Because it's going to be a showcase for females marrying men..."

"Gay marriage is legal, darling."

"Yes, but they usually consider themselves both grooms, wouldn't they?" asked Waylon, reaching out to gingerly touch some of the beading.

"And you're telling me a groom cannot wear a dress?" asked Eddie.

"Well. I don't know," said Waylon, sighing as he rubbed a bit of the satin between two fingers. "Maybe. It's not that the groom can't wear a dress, just, why would they want to…"

"Perhaps there are some males that would enjoy wearing dresses—they just had not thought to see it showcased. I think it would be the kind of thing that would turn the judges' heads. If it's done the right way—not as some shock value or joke, but as a way to show real beauty in a man wearing a custom fit gown…"

"But Eddie, I want to win…" said Waylon, staring at Eddie through his reflection in the mirror.

"I have a gut instinct that tells me it would be very well received among these judges," said Eddie. "I mentioned such ideas, and the entire panel at my interview was intrigued."

"I can't do it," said Waylon, shaking his head. "I _physically_ can't do it, I'm not going to be able to walk around a stage wearing that dress. It's too nice for me, it's…"

"Custom designed, with your measurements in mind, darling."

"I don't care. I'm not doing it, I can't! I'm not…I'm not good enough to be a model, I'm an average guy. I'm not very attractive, or muscular, or tall, or well proportioned. If you want to make a dress for a man, I wouldn't stop you, but you should find someone better, a male model, someone…"

"You are the most beautiful person I have ever met in my entire life," said Eddie, sighing as he leaned close, pressing his chest into Waylon's back, and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"You carry yourself with strength and pride. You are kind to all you meet. I can picture you, clearly—your blond hair swept back, brown eyes smiling as you're wearing it, and it's too perfect. It's what I want. I won't force you. I _never_ want to force you to do anything ever again."

Waylon's bottom lip stuck out as he pouted at the reflection of him behind the dress. "I don't know…"

"At least, try it on? Let me see it on you?"

The gown was large with pounds of fabric and beading making it very heavy. It took Eddie and Waylon to lift it and settle it over Waylon's body. He stood still while Eddie carefully laced up the bodice. Some of the stitching was still only temporary stitches, but Eddie was careful and slow.

Once Waylon had the dress on his body, Eddie held up the train as Waylon carefully walked out into the main showroom. Waylon stepped up onto the small dais surrounded by three full length mirrors that were used for fittings at the shop.

"It fits," said Waylon, shaking his head as he stared. The bodice covered his chest, but left enough of his collarbone and chest muscles visible, making it obvious he was a male. The beaded sleeves that had seemed so dainty on the mannequin accented his biceps and the short cut of the skirt in front highlighted his toned legs. "What are the odds?"

"I have a rather good memory for measurements," said Eddie, with a soft chuckle. "I could never forget yours. I think I could fit you in my sleep, considering how vividly I remember mapping out every inch of you."

Eddie's hands moved up and down the sides of the bodice as he spoke. There was an automatic hitch in Waylon's breathing from the mostly innocent touches.

"Wouldn't it be strange, though?" asked Waylon. "Entering a contest for wedding dresses with a regular guy as the model?"

"I'm the wrong person to ask about what is strange, anymore," said Eddie, shaking his head. "I've given up caring. I am strange, I suppose. But I live the way that makes me happy. Before you, I was alone and content. Now I have you, and what would make me happiest in this world is to dress you in a gown fit for a queen, and show you off to the world."

Waylon laughed and buried his face in his hands to hide his blush. "It's embarrassing…"

"I won't force you…"

"…but, I'll do it. But if I do this, I want to do it all the way. I need hair, makeup, and fancy shoes…"

"Stockings and a garter should be required as well, since they're visible because of the short front…" said Eddie, sliding a hand down to lift the shortest part of the skirt to illustrate his point.

Waylon's hand flew to Eddie's wrist, fighting to push the dress back down. Eddie brushed against Waylon's underwear, and the thickening member contained within the cotton confines. "Oh darling, I'm so glad you like it."

"It was the touching!" said Waylon, looking more flustered than angry. "You're the one on fire for me in dresses, I'm trying to indulge your proclivities. It's definitely not the…the way the satin feels on my skin, or the sound it makes when it brushes against itself, or how absolutely untouchable it makes me feel…"

"You're going to be the most beautiful model there," said Eddie, standing up, and taking a small step back to admire the entire picture of Waylon standing in the competition gown. He almost forgot how to breathe. He vowed never to forget the picture of his Waylon wearing his finest creation.

"Won't it be a problem for you, though? Having me as your model?" asked Waylon, raising a single eyebrow as he watched Eddie examine the gown.

"I'm a professional," said Eddie, distracted as he leaned down to pick up the long train and repositioned it, studying the way the light hit the crystals from different angles. He had to find the perfect angle to ensure the gown reached its full potential. He was so absorbed he almost failed to realize that Waylon had shuffled around under his skirts.

When Eddie glanced back in the mirrors, Waylon had lifted the front of the skirt up with one hand and was lightly stroking himself with the other, underwear discarded on the showroom floor.

"You're sure about that?" asked Waylon.

Eddie made no answer, instead clearing his throat and standing back up, leaving the train for another time.

Waylon made no movement to cover up. The sight of his bare erection beneath the satin skirts was too much. The tiniest smile graced Waylon's lips as he wrapped his fingers around his cock and pushed down toward the base.

"Darling…you've got to behave better than this for the competition," said Eddie, in his most professional voice.

Waylon moaned instead, pumping his fist in slow, lazy strokes. Eddie looked around the shop, a frightened expression on his face. The large windows were great to show off his products, but when Waylon was in the open, exposing himself, the windows were only a liability. Eddie's mind was split between an intense desire to force Waylon to cover up—and another to rip the dress clear from his body.

"What's wrong?" asked Waylon, the smirk spreading across his face. "You have no problem touching me in bed…" Eddie stared at how Waylon touched himself, the movements more teasing than applying any pressure.

Eddie walked until he was standing protectively between a lewd Waylon and the front windows. "This is not our bed, darling, someone might see…"

"But didn't you make this dress so you could show me off?" asked Waylon, snickering softly. Eddie knew his expression must have been downright pained.

"Not this part of you," muttered Eddie before he was distracted by a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. A shopper walked past the windows of the shop, without pausing to look. Eddie leapt into protective mode, pushing his body closer to Waylon's, holding his arms out to block the view.

Waylon laughed, his hands abandoning his groin to grip Eddie's shoulders as he lifted one leg and wrapped it around Eddie. The shopper moved on, but Eddie remained tense, even when Waylon's leg rest against the crease where his hip and thigh met, followed shortly by warm, gentle lips on his throat.

"You're too uptight," whispered Waylon against Eddie's skin, causing him to swallow painfully.

"Or maybe you're just too much of a slut," muttered Eddie before biting his tongue. The relief that washed over him when Waylon laughed was palpable.

"You say it like it's a bad thing," said Waylon before scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin along Eddie's neck. "In the past, if I was more reserved, I honestly have no idea how I did it, because I really struggle to keep control when we're alone." Waylon rolled his hips into Eddie's for emphasis. Eddie stifled a moan at the feeling of Waylon's nudity grinding into the already formed tent in the front of his dress slacks.

Eddie's response was a growl as he hooked his hand beneath Waylon's thigh and the other behind his ass, picking him up completely. Waylon chuckled, his hands clutching tighter to Eddie's shoulders and his thighs tightening around his waist. Eddie tried to walk, but Waylon's mass combined with the considerable weight of the dress caused him to stumble slightly. Waylon let out an adorable yelp.

"Careful!" said Waylon, tightening his grip on Eddie to near suffocating levels.

"Maybe think twice before exposing yourself in the showroom, next time," said Eddie, his voice strained as he struggled against unwieldy weight. He managed to shuffle, zombie-like, into the backroom before shoving Waylon against the wall, out of public view. He had only meant to use the wall as a way to alleviate some of the weight as he readjusted his grip, until he saw the reaction.

Waylon moaned, legs tightening around Eddie and his back arching off of the wall to grind his hips against Eddie's pelvis. Eddie had no resistance against such a wanton act. He leaned forward, pressing Waylon against the wall so that he rose a couple inches before dropping back down, able to continue the contact.

Eddie kissed him then, and cursed himself for not doing it sooner. Eddie closed his eyes and focused on every sensation of holding Waylon—the taste of his lover; the familiar way he used his tongue. The feeling of the heavy fabric seemed to bring Edie back to reality. He adjusted his grip on Waylon's ass, grunting at the effort.

The sound of shifting fabrics and the soft gasp that broke Waylon's lips as his nudity ground against Eddie's slacks. Eddie growled before leaning in to nip a trail across Waylon's bare shoulder, pressing Waylon up the wall slightly. It wasn't enough. Eddie needed better access if either of them wanted any real relief.

"Hold on," said Eddie, backing away from the wall and teetering under Waylon's weight. He walked the few steps to the nearest surface, covered with different fabrics, a pair of scissors, and a pincushion shaped like a tomato. It all fell to the floor with a quick swipe of an arm before Waylon was set down on his back on the table.

"Eddie!" said Waylon, laughing as Eddie moved around, trying to position the skirts of the contest gown to keep them clear of his access to Waylon. He paused for a moment, gazing down at Waylon on his back on the table, skirts billowing around him.

"How could you not win, darling? You're beautiful," said Eddie putting a hand on each of Waylon's knees, coaxing Waylon to spread wide.

As brazen as he had been moments before, Waylon managed to look downright virginal when Eddie stared down where he was exposed. His cheeks blushed bright pink and he averted his eyes from Eddie's ravenous gaze. Pale thighs beckoned.

Eddie bent over, hands sliding across toned thighs before pausing at the crease where thigh met hip. There was a susurrus of satin as Eddie pushed the short skirt even higher, clear of the moisture already beading on Waylon's cock.

Eddie began to press kisses against Waylon's thighs, each slow movement causing Waylon to inhale sharply and release his breath in a stuttering exhale. Fingers followed with feather light touches sliding towards Waylon's groin. Waylon's noises grew louder and more affected as Eddie's kisses developed into licking and biting, growing closer and closer to Waylon's swaying length.

There was a loud gasp as Waylon attempted to sit up, having felt an unexpected puff of air across his privates. Eddie was crouched down lower, staring at the enticing way Waylon's hole quivered in front of him.

Eddie pressed his fingers in, closer, gripping cheeks and pulling wider. Waylon was blushing when Eddie pressed his face in closer and flicked his tongue across Waylon's ass. The tight ring twitched beneath his tongue, prompting Eddie to pull Waylon open even further and press his tongue inside.

Dim memories guided Eddie, faintly remembering what felt good. He pushed them aside, focusing only on the noises coming from Waylon. His short breaths when Eddied traced the puckered ring with the tip of his tongue and the slutty groan and buck of his hips when Eddie's tongue breached his hole. Eddie replicated whatever made Waylon squirm the most, testing the limits of his tongue in an attempt to get deeper.

The myriad of sensations was new and exciting. The wrinkled texture of the rim as compared to the smooth, tight inner circle. The feel of muscles tensing in Waylon's ass with each new swipe of a tongue across his hole. The way desperate fingers tangled in Eddie's stripe of hair, forcing it out of place and helping Waylon grind back against Eddie's attentions.

Eddie pulled away, looking up at the desperate expression on Waylon's face. He struggled to crunch his abs to sit up enough to stare at Eddie, mouth open and panting. His own erection strained harder than ever against his pants.

There was so much saliva covering Waylon's opening that it dripped and glistened. Eddie stared up at Waylon, meeting his eyes as he slid his tongue along two of his fingers, wetting them. A pained whimper left Waylon's lips. Eddie began to probe gently at Waylon's hole.

It was a breathtaking view. Waylon gasping and squirming, Eddie's fingers sliding in and out. The tight grip loosened slightly as he worked and Waylon struggled to relax. His ruddy cock swayed in front of Eddie's face as he pushed his hips off the flimsy table, groaning in frustration at the lack of friction. Eddie felt powerful, staring down at his creation. Not only the amazingly intricate gown, but the desperate man wearing it, begging with his eyes.

Eddie's fingers sunk deeper, reaching their limit, pressing circles against Waylon's insides until he was whimpering and writhing, causing the gown to shift, sometimes falling forward and blocking Eddie's view until he could readjust the skirts.

"Get this dress off of me," moaned Waylon, pawing at his chest covered by the bodice. There was sweat evident on his skin and Eddie imagined it was making the satin uncomfortable. "I want to fuck you."

Eddie throbbed as he sucked at Waylon's wet hole, eliciting an even louder moan. "What a slutty bride you make, darling." Eddie gave a final push inside, staring at the way his fingers disappeared inside the pink ring. "That would take too long. I need you now."

"But, Eddie," Waylon managed to stutter out as he craned his neck to watch Eddie undoing his belt and slacks. He rucked the pants down only as far as was necessary to grasp his painfully hard erection and aim it at his target. "The dress! You'll ruin it."

"Nothing you could do would ruin this dress," said Eddie, lining up and rubbing the head of his cock across Waylon's hole. He hesitated, just a moment, considering the lack of their usual devices, but Waylon seemed impatient, arcing off the table and pushing back toward Eddie. It was a clear enough signal. Eddie pushed inside, slowly.

Waylon's face contorted as he held his breath against the sensation. Eddie paused long enough to allow Waylon to gasp for some desperate breaths before continuing. Eddie knew that stretching could be painful, but the look on Waylon's face was pleasure more than pain. Perhaps their routine couplings had assisted in that matter. Once Eddie was buried to the hilt, Waylon took himself in hand and began a frantic jerking motion.

"Filthy slut," said Eddie, his tone full of awe rather than disgust. He could barely move, Waylon was clenching down so hard around his cock. But he needed to. Eddie gave a hard thrust and flinched at the way the flimsy table beneath Waylon leapt forward several inches. Then he repeated the movement.

The noises rising from Waylon's throat were loud, and Eddie had trouble differentiating between enjoyment and fear. He stared down at Waylon, stroking himself and writhing in the expensive fabric, exposed skin glistening with sweat from the poorly ventilated backroom.

Eddie gripped Waylon's hips, pulling him closer as he pushed his hips forward, impaling him repeatedly. Each hard thrust caused the table to jump creating a loud banging noise. Waylon's moaning threatened to drown out the scraping of wooden legs across the floor.

"Eddie…" the sound of his name on Waylon's lips pushed him into a frenzied state. Eddie felt unable to control any of his urges, pushing in even when Waylon screamed and grasped at his shirt. They were both far too clothed, and yet Eddie had no patience for any further delays. His hips had a mind of their own as he plunged deeper into Waylon's ass.

There was no warning, only a broken grunt, when Eddie climaxed. His continued movements were eased by the new rush of wetness. He pumped into Waylon until he was filled to overflowing. His sex hazed mind did not care that his come was leaking onto his only chance at winning the competition. He leaned over and kissed Waylon's open lips, hands resting on either side of Waylon on the table, causing it to creak ominously.

Waylon panted against Eddie's lips, crying out as a hand flew between their bodies to cover his cock while the other continued to stroke himself through the last spurts of his orgasm. Eddie stepped back, pants falling slightly further as he stared at Waylon, wrecked and panting in their expensive gown, his own come dripping from his fingers and Eddie's leaking from his raw hole.

"We need to get you out of that dress," Eddie somehow managed to say through his own fight to regain his breath. Waylon's head hit the table as he laughed noiselessly. There was no energy left to actually make a sound.

Eddie helped Waylon out of the dress and inspected it for damage. Some torn temporary stitching, a ripped strand of beading, and some unfortunate stains. Nothing Eddie could not remedy. Part of the job as a wedding gown designer was knowing how to remove stains from an expensive white gown.

Waylon put his green dress back on and attempted to clean up the scattered mess from their thoughtless rush onto the table. They were both laughing and smiling when they walked out into the main shop area and directly into Frank.

"Frank?" asked Eddie, his face going white.

"Hey man," said Frank, smiling from where he was seated, browsing through some bridal magazines.

"How long have you been here?" demanded Eddie, his voice icy cold.

"Oh, not long, Way said you guys were coming over to the Shack tonight, so figured we could walk together, I'm off the clock…"

"You could have rung the bell," said Eddie, glowering at Frank.

"Ah, yeah, I figured I'd just wait for you guys to get done fucking. I'm usually pretty hungry after I'm done, though, I'm hungry all the time really, and, it has been a while so…"

Eddie was staring horrified and Waylon only laughed and pushed past him, walking to stand next to Frank.

"Hungry?" asked Waylon, grinning at Eddie as he nudged his body against Frank and jerked his head toward the door. "To the Shack?"

* * *

A/N: Thank you everyone that's been reviewing! Man, I usually never get much of a following on FFN so it's made me really happy and I'm glad I kept posting here even when the response was minimal. I appreciate everyone that took the time out to say something, so thank you! Also, Next Week on Tuesday, DOUBLE UPDATE, and the event we have all been waiting for and KNOWING was coming is going to happen. Can Eddie help him remember? Will Dennis spill the beans? Miles breaks the case?! It's happening next week. Get hyped.


	14. Chapter 14: A Walk to Remember

**Chapter 14: A Walk To Remember**

"Eddie," said Waylon, nuzzling his cheek against Eddie's sweaty chest as they laid side by side in bed. "I've been wondering…"

"Yes, darling?" asked Eddie, his post-coital haze settling in, and making him tired. His nightly sessions with Waylon had quickly become the highlight of his days. It did not matter that they had already made time at the shop earlier that day. Eddie could never get enough.

"Since I can remember, you've treated me well, made me feel at home, and taken care of me. You tell me we're married, and we have sex, but you never say the words."

"The words?" asked Eddie, craning his neck to look at Waylon's head rising in time with his breaths.

"How do you feel about me?" asked Waylon, so softly it barely counted as a whisper. Eddie exhaled and paused for a moment.

"I feel…wonderful about you?"

"But you never tell me that you…well, you never detail exactly…I mean, how do you _feel_ …"

"Oh," said Eddie, the meaning finally setting in. His head knocked back on the pillow as he stared at the ceiling, enjoying the warm weight of Waylon's cheek.

In the beginning, Eddie had deceived Waylon, but he had never used those words. _I love you_. Something about the phrase seemed too sacred to use as part of a prank.

They had become friends, and then lovers, but he had never crossed the line of lying about emotions he did not feel. There was no reason to change that practice so far into their relationship.

Eddie sat up slowly, dislodging Waylon from his comfy perch. He reached down and took Waylon's hands in his and held them to his chest. He stared down at curious brown eyes and smiled.

"I don't even remember how I lived without you," said Eddie, squeezing Waylon's hand against his chest while bringing up his free hand to gently smooth back sex-tousled hair. "I have never felt this way about another person—ever. I don't know how it happened, and I definitely don't deserve it, but I…I will spend all of my energy toward making you happy. For as long as you'll have me. I love you, Waylon…"

"Waylon?" he asked, forehead creasing slightly. "That's a nice name. I like it more than Wayde. Is it a nickname?"

"It's your name. Wayde is more of a nickname. I suppose you could say it changed when you came here. But I always think of you as Waylon," said Eddie.

He searched brown eyes for a hint that his real name might have sparked some recognition within Waylon, but there was only the same, soft gaze.

"I love you too, Eddie," said Waylon, leaning in to kiss Eddie's chin. "You make me so happy."

* * *

"Oishi Judo Club," said a young, female voice over the phone.

"Hi there, I'm looking for my friend, I know he trains at this Judo club, could you possibly page him for me?" asked Miles.

"There's a class in session right now, but I can give 'em a message."

"Okay, I'm looking for my friend, his last name is Park…"

The person on the other end hummed, and Miles could hear the distinctive clack of a keyboard in the background. There was a pause before the voice returned. "I don't see where we have anyone training here named Park."

"He's new to the club, only been going for a little over a month or so, maybe he's not in the system?"

"Yeah, sorry, this is my first week, I don't really know how to look up information very well…"

"Well, have you noticed anyone around? About five foot ten inches with blond hair and brown eyes?"

"Um, possibly, but no one named Park…"

Of course he would be using a fake name. Waylon wanted to lay low. Miles could not even begin to imagine the uncreative name Waylon was using as his alias. He was about to ask if there was a "John Smith" training at the club, when the person spoke up.

"Oh, here's something, Park, Waylon…"

"That's him," said Miles, his heart immediately racing, and a lump rising in his throat. After two months, he had finally located his friend. He was too relieved to be angry at Waylon. Though the anger would definitely come later.

"Okay, never mind, his name is only on the billing, seems it's his credit card on file for another member…hmm, I'm actually not sure if I'm allowed to give out this information to someone over the phone…"

"I'm not calling for the credit card number, I just need to speak with him, I'm a friend of his. My name's Miles."

"Well, the student's not working out here today, this class is for more advanced students, so you should try him at home…"

"I lost his number, could you give me the number you have on file? Saves me having to call ten other places looking for it, and I'm sure it's probably on the screen right in front of you, am I right?"

There was a long pause, though Miles could hear the receptionist breathing.

"I'm a friend of his, and we're having a huge surprise party for his fiancee. I need to let him know about it before he accidentally ruins the surprise." Miles chuckled into the phone, while rolling his eyes.

"Ah, well, I suppose giving out a number couldn't hurt," said the employee before detailing out an unfamiliar area code and phone number. Waylon must have gotten a new, local phone number. He was really going out of his way to remain hidden. "Though the name isn't Waylon Park on the information here. It says Chris Walker."

Miles snorted quietly to himself. Chris Walker. That sounded generic enough. At least it was better than "John Doe."

"Thanks for everything, have a great day," said Miles, hanging up.

* * *

"This is much more difficult than I was anticipating," said Eddie, breathing heavily. He cursed himself for letting the guys talk him into this venture.

"We're there," said Waylon, only slightly out of breath.

"There is actually more to hiking than just walking uphill," said Eddie. When Waylon finally came to a stop, he smiled.

Frank had been excited about Waylon's role as the competition model, but Dennis had doubts. He insisted that Eddie make a real effort to tell Waylon, directly, about his old life. The crew had spent an entire afternoon coming up with the perfect way to deliver the news.

That was why Eddie was hiking up a godforsaken mountain in the middle of the day, instead of fussing over his competition gown.

"This place feels very familiar. Is this a path we used to take together?" asked Waylon, squinting into the distance. "Look at that _view_ …"

Eddie found Waylon's walking boots and knee high socks adorable. He wore comfy shorts, and one of Eddie's old t-shirts. He quickly walked over to a white gazebo situated at the apex of the trail. "How charming!"

Eddie stared at the gazebo, and a somber feeling settled over him like a heavy blanket. There it stood: a hidden, rustic gem situated near a large drop-off. The white wood was striking against the tropical blue sky that day.

Waylon walked quickly toward the structure, seemingly unaffected by the previous hike. Eddie wished the gazebo would crumble, fall away, vanish from sight. He hoped, against hope, that it was a mirage, a trick of the eye, instead of the very corporeal key to Waylon's memory.

On his last day, Waylon Park had visited this site. It was the area he had reserved for his marriage. It was the place Miles Upshur said he was last seen. The white gazebo stood like a white flag; Eddie had come to surrender.

Waylon walked around the structure, examining it carefully. "Oh, dear…" he said, his voice turning so quiet the wind threatened to sweep it away.

"What is it?" asked Eddie, his entire body tensing.

"What happened here?" asked Waylon.

Eddie felt the first hints of a cold sweat on his brow. "I…I don't actually know. I wasn't here."

"Well, obviously, I wasn't either, but it looks like someone had an accident," said Waylon. "I wonder who owns this? Someone's got a lawsuit on their hands…"

There was no change in Waylon's calm demeanor, or the way he spoke. Eddie exhaled long and hard. He walked closer and saw what Waylon had noticed. One of the posts was completely wrapped with bright yellow caution tape and a hand written sign read: "Caution: Broken Post." Eddie frowned at the scribbling.

"Hope no one got hurt," said Waylon.

Eddie's blue eyes slowly grew until he was staring at Waylon, standing beside the broken post, and the event seemed to play out before his eyes. Eddie stepped closer, and carefully peered over the ledge. He gulped at the sizable drop. It was far enough to injure an ankle, and give someone a head injury, without killing them. They had arrived at the source.

Eddie waited for Waylon to realize it on his own. A feeling of dread settled in his gut.

Waylon hummed to himself as he looked around, losing interest with the gazebo and staring at the view of Mount Massive. "It's a nice view, but I prefer the view from our house. There's something about hiking, though. And this place…this place is nice."

Waylon turned and noticed the serious expression on Eddie's face. His smile faded away. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, darling, it's just…this place…does this place mean anything special to you?" asked Eddie. A realization seemed to dawn on Waylon's face as he frowned.

"Ah…" said Waylon, shaking his head, "No, I'm sorry. Something's bothering you, I can tell. My loss of memory is hurting you, and it makes me sad that I'm causing you pain. I want to remember-so very badly. But I also want to continue being happy with you. I can't dwell on my issue every second of every day. I'm busy living…"

Eddie sighed as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and cued up the music. The soft, wandering baseline of "Crash into you," by the Dave Matthews Band, began playing. The phone's speakers were poor quality, but it was quiet enough at the gazebo that the song was audible.

Waylon paused and listened carefully, like a deer hearing a twig snap in an otherwise silent forest. The song played on, and Waylon's face softened as he listened to the lyrics.

"Was this our song?" asked Waylon as the hook played in the background. Eddie shook his head. "It sounds hauntingly familiar."

Eddie prepared himself for what would certainly come next. He fully expected to have lost Waylon by the time the music ended. He was surprised when he felt arms sliding around his neck and lips pressed to his.

Eddie returned the kiss, folding his arms around Waylon, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I'm sorry, darling…"

"You brought me up here because you wanted me to remember something about the past, I'm guessing?" asked Waylon. "Does this have something to do with what Dennis said?"

Eddie's back straightened, immediately, and he bit back a surge of anger. "What do you mean, what did Dennis tell you?"

"Oh, nothing directly," said Waylon, giving a nervous chuckle and staring away. "I just had some suspicions, after he talked to me on the trails."

"What exactly did Dennis say?"

"Nothing, specific, I just…I had a feeling," said Waylon. Eddie's eyes searched Waylon's face. He was definitely blushing.

"Did Dennis and I have a history?" asked Waylon, his face even pinker than before.

"A… _history_?"

"Yeah, did we date? Or maybe just, some kind of crush? I…I hope it wasn't anything scandalous like an affair, or something…I don't remember, so I hope you don't hold it against me…"

Eddie's fear of Dennis' betrayal gave way to a hard ball of jealousy. "Dennis was…he was _flirting_ with you? Did he make some sort of move? Did he touch you?"

The rational side of Eddie reminded him that Dennis was his loyal friend of almost ten years, and that he had never shown interest in a man. But the irrational part was already playing a scene from a movie starring Dennis as the handsome hero, and Waylon, the beautiful love interest.

"Oh God, no," said Waylon, chuckling. He rested one of his hands on one of the gazebo's unbroken posts. "He was just telling me that I don't have to do things because people say things. That I don't have to like motorcycles, or baking, and I don't have to love you."

As quickly as it had risen, the anger abated. Dennis had not betrayed him. He had only attempted to look out for Waylon's best interest.

"He was looking at me the way you are looking at me now," said Waylon, and Eddie's head jerked up. How had he been looking at Waylon? "Like you are waiting for me to remember something, and I just can't do it."

"Well, you are right about that, but as for the history with Dennis, I'm afraid your friendship is rather new, and you've been with me the entire time."

Waylon nodded, bringing a hand up to hide his face. "Ha…sorry, I guess I was misreading the situation. I'm glad I didn't ask him about it. Though, how did he get that risque picture of me?"

Eddie laughed out loud at the thought of Waylon gently letting Dennis know he was not interested in him, romantically. Oh, to be a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation. Eddie shook his head and grabbed Waylon's arm, pulling him into a hug.

"I feel like your continued memory problem is a failure on my part," said Eddie, so softly it could only have been heard by someone as close to Waylon. "I love you so much. I want to do the right thing, but I'm afraid it will change the way you look at me—the way you _feel_ about me."

"Stop," said Waylon, pressing kisses along Eddie's chin. The song played on in the background as the two held one another in the damaged gazebo. "Nothing can change how much I love you."

Eddie began to doubt the entire plan. He wanted to melt at those words, and take Waylon right there. Eddie forced himself to reach into his pocket. He gripped the small card tighter than necessary as he worked up the courage. Finally, Eddie held the card out to Waylon. His hand was only slightly shaking.

"What's this?" asked Waylon, accepting the card. The business card of Miles Upshur. The lettering named him a staff member for a Denver paper.

"That is for you to keep. Do you recognize the name?" asked Eddie, his voice wavering slightly. Waylon stared at the engraved name on the business card.

"Miles Upshur," Waylon read aloud from the card. "A reporter, that's interesting. Doesn't sound familiar, though. What's my relationship to this person?"

"I, um, actually do not know, exactly," said Eddie, fighting to keep his voice from cracking from nerves. "I know you were friends."

"Eddie," said Waylon, lifting up a hand to gently cup Eddie's cheek. "You're pale, and clammy…if you're this nervous about me reaching out to this person, well, then I don't want to. I only want you. My memories can return at their own pace."

"At least, consider, contacting him?" asked Eddie.

"Why?"

"This person…this person knew you before I did," said Eddie, pressing his mouth hard against Waylon's temple, as though subconsciously trying to stop himself from speaking. "They can tell you things I can't. Things about your life before—details I never learned. Maybe he can help bring back your memories."

"As far as I'm concerned," said Waylon, pulling away to look into Eddie's eyes. "My life started the moment you walked into that hospital room."

Eddie wrapped his arms around Waylon and kissed him. How could he not? He frowned when the kiss finally broke, and stared at the ground. He had tried everything short of admitting, outright, his sins. Was it enough?

"You shouldn't worry so much," said Waylon, before initiating another kiss. The innocent caresses were quickly devolving into something dangerous. Eddie put a hand on each of Waylon's shoulders and pushed him away, breathing deeply as he stared around the area.

From the apex of the hill, they could easily see down the path, and all the way back to the entrance of the museum. No one was wandering up the trail, but there was no guarantee that would not change. Eddie's eyes were darting back and forth as he attempted to find a better place where they could be less exposed. An insistent hand squeezed his groin through his slacks.

"Darling, people can see…" said Eddie, pushing Waylon further away, a scandalized expression on his serious face.

"No one's here but us," said Waylon, chuckling softly. "I hate seeing you this distressed. I want to make you feel better…"

"I feel fine, I assure you," said Eddie before cutting his words off with a sharp bite on his bottom lip. Waylon's hand rubbed firmly up and down his thickening cock through his pants.

"I think I can make you feel better than fine…"

Eddie reeled slightly from the loss of Waylon beside him. He gripped the gazebo post and stared down at Waylon, dropping to his knees in broad daylight.

"This really isn't the time…"

Every argument Eddie was ready to produce vanished, when Waylon undid his slacks and pushed his nose and face into Eddie's crotch. It was alarming how nice Waylon's hot breath felt against his briefs. He felt Waylon inhale and moan softly, slack lips dragging across the cotton fabric separating Eddie's sex from Waylon's face.

"Someone will be around to check any minute, we should continue this back at our house," said Eddie, staring down with blue eyes dilated until they appeared dark in the shade of the gazebo.

"But this place was important, right? Maybe we can make a new memory here—one even better than whatever you were hoping I'd remember…"

Fingers hooked into the elastic of Eddie's briefs and pulled down until his erection was released with enough force to slap against Waylon's face. He giggled, teasing the underside with a fingertip.

"Darling…" started Eddie, but a wet tongue caressing his shaft caused him to moan, "…whore."

"What, you don't like it?" asked Waylon, a playful grin in his tone as he kissed his lips to the head of Eddie's cock. It twitched in response. "Someone likes it…"

Eddie could not tear his eyes away as Waylon licked carefully around his length, his curious tongue taking its time. Waylon's dark brown eyes never broke contact with Eddie's face as his tongue flicked at the flare of the head of Eddie's cock before swirling across the slit. Eddie's head dropped back and he stared at the cobwebs in the ceiling of the gazebo.

How had his plans gone so wrong? He had meant to help Waylon remember his past. He had expected Waylon to storm down the trail-alone. Possibly never wanting to see Eddie again. Instead, Eddie grasped a post with one hand and tangled the other in Waylon's blond hair.

Waylon hummed as he opened his mouth and Eddie's cock sank inside, inch by inch. Eddie gasped, instinct guiding his hand as he assisted Waylon's movements. He released Waylon's hair when he felt him gag violently.

"Are you okay? Why would you do something like that to yourself?"

"It's fine," said Waylon, grinning with tears in his brown eyes. "I just don't remember my technique, I guess. You're really big. Was I able to take it all the way in before?"

Eddie grunted instead of answering, trying to stare away at anything other than Waylon's inquisitive stare. There was still no one around outside the museum. Perhaps if they stopped...

With one hand, Waylon squeezed the base of Eddie's erection and guided it back into his mouth. Eddie watched as flushed lips wrapped around his cock, and it began to slip deeper inside with each bobbing motion. Waylon's cheeks hollowed and his eyes closed. Eddie felt guilty just watching Waylon in such an intimate pose.

Eddie was distracted by some movement beneath Waylon. Somehow his own shorts were undone and he was touching himself while working Eddie. The impropriety of the situation only caused Eddie's blood to race faster.

"Look at what a good whore you are," said Eddie, more to himself than Waylon. The remark was met with a deep groan that vibrated through Waylon's throat. Eddie held Waylon's head in place with one hand and pushed his hips forward until Waylon was gagging and drooling.

There were no complaints from Waylon as Eddie continue to take his pleasure. Eddie could catch glimpses of a quick hand working between Waylon's legs and took it as an invitation to push deeper. Surely, the lewd slurping noises were so loud someone from the museum would notice. All Eddie could hear were the muffled moans of Waylon, and the desperate shuffling of fabric around where Waylon was jerking himself.

It was wrong. Not just because they were out in the open. This was not the reason for coming here. But when Eddie felt a familiar throbbing he knew it was too late to focus on useless worries and regrets. He had enough of those recently.

Eddie attempted to pull Waylon's hair-to pry him away. It only prompted Waylon to redouble his efforts. Eddie groaned in the face of imminent release.

"Hold still," panted Eddie. "...wait, what are you..."

Eddie grunted and pulled away, grasping his dick in his hand. It was too late to stop the impending climax. He pumped his fist up and down his shaft, slippery from Waylon's mouth. He tensed and attempted to aim away from their position, but Waylon intercepted.

The first powerful spurt painted a streak across Waylon's face and closed eyes. Eddie gave a groan that was equal parts horrified and aroused. The sight of his come dripping and smearing across Waylon's face was the ultimate turn on.

When Waylon finally opened his eye, strands clung to his lashes as brown eyes burned into Eddie's as he stared up, tongue out as he lapped at the last dribbles falling down Eddie's shaft. Eddie pushed his hand into Waylon's hair and gripped hard, pulling his head back and holding him in place as Eddie bent at the waist to lean down and kiss Waylon.

There as so much wetness, the taste of salt and spit mingling where their tongues met. Waylon moaned pitifully into the kiss, his jaw going slack and open, allowing Eddie to taste at his leisure. Before long, Waylon's entire body wracked with spasms and Eddie pulled back to watch Waylon spend across the floor of the gazebo, pearly ropes standing out against the dirt on the white, wooden floor.

What a mess. Eddie's was still panting as he looked around, expecting someone to give away their location or shout some condescending comments. They were blessedly alone.

Eddie was still looking around when Waylon tucked his cock back into his shorts and struggled to his feet. Eddie chuckled as he reached down to help his lover stand upright on shaky knees. Eddie chuckled to himself at the dripping smears of his own come marring Waylon's pink cheeks. He swiped a thumb across to remove some of his seed, and inhaled sharply when Waylon caught his hand and sucked hard on his thumb as their eyes met.

"Was it good?" asked Waylon as Eddie stood, his thumb still against Waylon's lips and his own mouth open in reverent awe.

"Y-yes," said Eddie.

"How does it compare to before? I don't remember much about sucking dick…"

"I-It, uh, amazing…very good…A-plus"

"You look a lot less stressed," said Waylon, grinning. Eddie chuckled and shook his head, reaching into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief he always had on hand. He helped dab away some of the remaining smears. They had to walk back near the museum. Eddie did not want to risk Waylon getting embarrassed in some way, as unlikely as it seemed.

Both men adjusted their clothing and Eddie picked up his phone, having long gone silent, and prepared to walk back down the trail. Eddie hoped it was a quicker walk down than up since he was feeling rather drained.

"This is definitely our place, now," said Waylon, grinning as he held out a hand to Eddie. Once they were hand in hand, they began a slow pace down the path.

Eddie was already wondering what he should tell the guys. Dennis had insisted that he be straightforward. He demanded that Eddie give Waylon the card from Miles Upshur, and the freedom to contact him. Frank had been the one that recommended the sappy music and meaningful location. And in the end, their best efforts had failed. Eddie paused, and once Waylon felt the resistance where he held Eddie's hand, he stopped as well.

The only thing Eddie had not done was tell him the whole truth, starting from the very beginning.

Eddie took a deep breath and lifted Waylon's hand up to his lips, gently kissing the back of his knuckles.

"Waylon, I need to tell you something..."

The afternoon sun lit up Waylon's blond hair and his brown eyes were soft when they met Eddie's. There was only the sound of the wind and distant traffic from the road. Eddie shook his head, sighing.

"I love you," he said, cursing himself for being so weak. If he could not say the truth out loud, perhaps it was time to attempt a different method. Perhaps it was time to write Waylon a letter.


	15. Chapter 15: Restored

**Chapter 15: Restored**

Miles tapped a pencil against his desk, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he glared at his screen. He was beginning to doubt that the phone number from the Judo club was even operational, except for that voice mail message.

It was not the default, electronic voice demanding him to leave a message. It was nothing at all. The best online searches showed only that the number was for a cell phone. Waylon was smart enough to find an untraceable number.

Miles was careful to keep his own number hidden to avoid alerting Waylon that he was onto him. His relief at having located his friend wore off as he continued to dial the number. He refused to leave a voicemail. This was something he needed to do in person. Or as in person as one could be from thousands of miles away over a phone.

He had begun to imagine the entire situation as a type of test. Miles could picture Waylon on a laptop, calculating and planning the best way to avoid detection by his best friend. Maybe he had assumed Lisa would look for him, as well. Miles growled as he hung up the phone and swirled his chair around in an angry huff, accidentally shoving his face into a warm bosom.

"Ugh, you're disgusting," said Trisha as she pushed Miles' swivel chair causing him to complete another half rotation before he caught himself with his feet and glared up at Trisha.

"What?" asked Miles, done with feigning politeness to the moody intern.

"Trager needs to talk to you," said Trisha. Miles gave no indication he had heard, though he stood up and stormed away in the direction of his boss's office. He stared through the glass window of the door and watched as Trager finished up some phone call, smiling.

"Hey, buddy," said Trager, popping up the collar on his pink polo shirt. "It's your lucky day. You're always clamoring for a new assignment, so I have a competition coming up, and I feel you're the right guy for the job…"

"I've covered competitions in the past for my college paper," said Miles, nodding. "Mostly of the wet t-shirt variety."

"That's the spirit! These girls are definitely going to be wearing white, though there's no water involved…" Trager paused to write something on a pad of paper. Miles was forced to wait in awkward silence until he finished. Once he was done, Trager clicked his pen closed and used it to motion toward an empty chair on the other side of his desk. "Denver Bridal Competition."

Miles screamed, internally. "I'll do it," he said, accepting the seat.

"I knew you had the drive of a winner," said Trager, giving a slimy smile. "This is, of course, gonna take place during your days off this week. I'm gonna need you to make sure to check in so I know you're actually there, this piece of really important to some of our biggest sponsors…"

"Wait," said Miles, sitting up straighter in the uncomfortable chair. "I've been putting in extra hours all week so I could get this time off. It's really important. I may have found my missing friend, after _months_ , I can't wait any longer…"

"I'll make sure you get some time off, sure," said Trager, nodding as he steepled his hands in front of his face, "…after the Bridal Competition."

Miles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Find someone else. I won't do it."

"What's that, buddy? Sounded like quitter talk," said Trager. When Miles opened his eyes, the old man was glaring at him though his circular spectacles.

"I need my days off this week, I can't do the story…"

"I think you overestimate your value to this establishment, Mr. Upshur," said Trager, sitting back in his executive chair until it leaned back and squeaked. "You're a low level copy editor with a long record of absences, showing no initiative of your own, turning down important stories…where do you see yourself going with this company?"

"I want to be an investigative reporter, not a copy editor…"

"You know, I see what's happening here," said Trager, chuckling. He held his pen in front of his face, pressed between two fingertips. "You're bored of the type of jobs we offer here? You feel like you're entitled to better stories? You don't get enough attention from the higher-ups, is that the case?"

"You're wrong," said Miles, through clenched teeth, gripping his knees until his knuckles were white. "I just need these days off."

"And I am going to get you those days off. A whole lot of days off actually. You're fired. Clean out your desk, and vacate the building. Security will be notified-don't bother asking about a severance package. I'm glad we got this chance to talk."

"Get fucked," said Miles, standing up with a pleasant smile.

Miles walked, quickly and calmly, back to his disgusting cubicle and paced behind his computer chair for a few seconds. Nothing was going as planned. How was he going to afford to track down Waylon without a job? How could he pay rent? He could not even crash at his best friend's house because his best friend was gone…

Miles picked up the phone and dialed the number again, waiting through the rings to leave a voice message.

"Waylon, It's Miles. I get it. You don't want to be found. And that's fine. But, I just lost my job, and I don't know where you are, and I really just…need my best friend right now…"

The glaring red light began flashing on his desk phone, and a beeping sounded over the line. Incoming call. Probably Trager, calling to get in some final parting jab. _Don't forget to suck my dick on the way out, buddy._ Miles huffed and hit the flash button to switch to the other call, abandoning his pitiful call for help.

"Upshur."

"Who's there?" asked a gruff voice. Miles looked the phone in confusion and noticed the caller identification. Waylon? But the voice had not resembled his friend's voice in the slightest.

"Waylon?" asked Miles, happiness momentarily drowning out everything else.

"You got the wrong number…" grumbled a deep bass voice.

"I doubt that, I need to speak to Waylon, put him on…"

"Stop calling here," said the man.

"I need to speak to Waylon Park," said Miles, enunciating clearly over the line. "Or Chris Walker." He added the pseudonym just in case.

"I know you?" asked Chris.

"Is your name Chris Walker?" asked Miles.

"Affirmative," said Chris. Miles enthusiasm at having found Waylon quickly dissolved into confusion. Luckily, he was quick no his feet.

"Yes, I'm calling from Oishi Judo Club, I'm looking for a Mr. Waylon Park, we have some billing issues here at the club, and his name is on file with a credit card…"

There was an unhappy grunt on the other end of the line. "There was a problem with that card. I need to get a new one. I'm paid up through the end of the month…"

"Is Waylon there, perhaps we could work this payment issue out in a different way?"

"Yeah, sorry, he's uh, not here right now."

"It's imperative that I speak with him."

"I don't know what imperative means, but he's not here. And he's not coming back."

"What did you do to him?!"

"Who is this?"

"Listen to me, Chris Walker, you stole Waylon's credit cards? I'm looking at the receipt right here. There's plenty of evidence. I'm going to the police and reporting you as a suspect in a _murder_ , with robbery as the motive, if you don't tell me where Waylon is right now…"

"Whoa, hey, hold up, murder? What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't murder anyone…"

"Tell it to the police, because if you hang up without letting me speak to Waylon they're going to be calling next, and I have an entire trail of cash withdrawals, credit card charges, and witnesses at the Judo club. You'll be in custody within the hour…"

"Just, hold up, I didn't murder anybody, I want to speak to a lawyer," said Chris.

"Well, maybe we can leave the police out of this—maybe you give me enough information, and I can find Waylon myself. If you can lead me to him right now, I'll even forgive all these cash withdrawals…"

"I don't know," shouted Chris into the phone, causing Miles to pull away from the ear piece. "Okay? I don't know. I didn't kill him. He was alive when I found him. I dropped him at the hospital."

"Hospital? You left him at a hospital? Why?! Where did you find him?"

"He was lyin' out on the side of the road. I was picking up trash for the county, kind of a part time job, and I stumbled upon him over by that twisted oak with the historical marker plaque. I checked for his wallet and phone, only tryin' to help him out, but then he woke up. He didn't seem to notice, or care, that I had his wallet and phone. In fact, he didn't seem to know much of anything. He was kinda, in and out of consciousness, for a while, so I drove him to the hospital, and dropped him off."

"Where was this?" demanded Miles.

"Leadville, of course," said Chris.

"You…you found Waylon, injured on the side of the road, in Leadville? How'd you get to New York City?!"

"I took a bus," said Chris, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "I never had enough money to get out of that pitiful town. I'm tired of living in that shit hole. Thought it was a sign that I could finally get started somewhere new. But damn, New York City is expensive, and all the work I'm finding isn't even paying the bills on this closet I'm renting from another Judo student…"

"Wow, your life story is boring and I don't give a fuck, but what happened to Waylon? He's my friend, and I need to find him— _now_ ," said Miles.

"That's the last I saw him."

"Where's his cell phone?" asked Miles.

"Sold it for parts a while back," said Chris, giving a loud sigh. "I didn't do anything to that guy. I found him like that. Bleeding from the nose. Limping. I took him to the hospital, and then left, because I didn't want to be implicated in anything. I have a record."

"Of course you do," muttered Miles, pushing his fingers through his hair. "What could have happened to him? Did you see another car? Maybe it was a car accident? Did it look like someone had beaten him up?"

"Maybe," mumbled Chris. "I really didn't wanna get a closer look at the guy. He seemed strange in the head."

"Was there anyone else around? Like, Eddie Gluskin, or Gluskin's husband?"

A loud, bass laugh reverberated over the line. "Gluskin's _husband_?"

"Yeah, Waylon's my friend, he was in Leadville because he was going to get married. His fiancee pissed off Eddie Gluskin right before Waylon disappeared. He's a person of interest in this situation…"

"Oh, I know Gluskin. We've been friends for years. He used to date my sister. And I can _guarantee_ you, he don't have a husband."

"He does have a husband-everyone in town knew about him…"

"Just the day before I left, Gluskin and his boys were sitting around in the back of the Shack, alone, as usual. Pamela always had an eye on Gluskin, but he constantly turned her down. Said he just wasn't ready for a relationship. I haven't seen him date anyone in over ten years. He ain't married."

"But, then…Wayde…where did you say you found Waylon again? What hospital did you go to?"

As soon as Chris finished giving out the information, Miles slammed down the phone and stood up. He looked around for the nearest box. It was filled to the brim with file folders. Miles quickly upended it, dumping the papers onto the floor.

"Hey," came Trisha's voice from behind him. "Trager said to call security if you cause a scene."

"I'm not causing a scene," said Miles, forcing him voice to remain level. "I just, need to go somewhere, _right now_ , and I'm using this box to clean out my desk. I'm not doing anything destructive."

"Well, I have to sit here and watch, just in case," said Trisha, sounded put out.

Miles muttered to himself as he pushed the few personal items he had brought from home. A few pens, a notebook, the framed picture of him and Waylon, and a daily calendar where each day was another mountain peak with information about it. A gift from Waylon. He was momentarily stunned at exactly how important his best friend was in his life. He should have quit his job weeks ago, and gotten to the bottom of the situation, when he first had the chance.

Miles grabbed his mug and accidentally knocked over his stack of belongings. He bent down and pushed them all into the box for easy carrying. When he stood up, Trisha was staring at where he had been bent over, a look of interest on her young face. Her eyes went wide, and she blushed, when she realized she had been caught.

Miles sniffed and picked up his belongings. He walked past Trisha before pausing to look at her out of the side of his eye.

"Pervert," he said before continuing all the way out of the building.

There was no reason to cause a scene. He wanted to leave. _Needed_ to leave. He raced to his Jeep and started toward Leadville. He could be there in two hours, if he went over the speed limit. Damn. Almost out of gas. Would he ever catch a break?

Finally, Miles was pulling into Leadville proper. He paused when he recognized something from speaking with Chris. There was a large, twisted oak on the side of the road with a bronze plaque denoting it as some local landmark. Miles swerved to the side of the road without signally, earning a long honk from the car behind him.

"Yeah, fuck you, too," he muttered under his breath, checking both ways before turning his Jeep to follow the road beside the oak. He recognized the road immediately. "Well, goddamn."

Miles pulled up to the National Mining Museum. He walked away from the large staircase that led to the museum building, and instead began a walk up a steep hill. The walk was longer than expected. He found himself breathing hard, and sweating, despite the cool, overcast day. It was quite a hike. Soon he found himself at the very top of the area beside the museum in front of a wooden gazebo painted white. Miles stood, catching his breath, and staring.

It was a perfect place to get married. He could easily imagine Waylon waiting under the gazebo wearing a tuxedo, and Lisa approaching in a huge, white gown. This is where they were supposed to get married. It was a pretty picture—except for one thing.

Miles walked closer and stared at the bright yellow caution tape roped around the entrance to the gazebo. There was a considerable amount tied around one of the posts that held up the ceiling. When he got close enough, he read the warning on the sign taped to the wood. "Caution: Broken Post."

Miles rarely listened to good advice. He carefully held onto one of the sturdy posts for balance as he stepped over the caution tape, closer to the broken post. He touched it, gently, and felt it easily give. He then looked around it, and stared at the view. Mount Massive in the distance, surrounded by a misty fog—or maybe rain. The air smelled like a storm. And then Miles canted his eyes down and noticed the drop.

 _Waylon_.

The bottom of the drop was thick with foliage, and a short walk away from the bottom was the oak with its bronze plaque. Miles could see it clearly. Waylon falling from the accident. Waylon wandering, confused and upset, back toward the road. Running into Chris Walker. What kind of man was he that would bring a man to the hospital, but also steal his wallet and phone? Could Miles really believe his story about Eddie being unmarried?

There was only one way to be completely sure that _Wayde Gluskin_ was not _Waylon Park_.

Miles drove toward the tailor's shop. He pulled into the tailor's parking lot only to be met with darkness and a "Sorry! We're Closed!" sign in the window. He cursed as he jumped back in the Jeep and sped to the Rib Shack. Miles walked in, and immediately recognized the bartender.

"Pamela," said Miles, rushing to the bar.

"Oh, well, hello there," she said, pausing to put down a pitcher she had been filling. She gave a nervous smile and her eyes darted back and forth between Miles and a table in the back. Miles immediately turned, and stared in the direction. He saw a table with a man wearing a stained apron, and another staring at a phone. Something in Chris' story flew to the front of his mind as he turned his back on Pamela, and approached the table.

"You need help with something?" Pamela called from behind the bar.

Miles ignored her, instead walking until he was standing beside the table in the back. The man in the apron had a long, dirty beard and long hair. He blinked owlishly as he looked up at Miles.

"Oh, uh, hey man, we know you?" asked the man. A name tag on his shirt identified him as "Frank," an employee of the Rib Shack.

"Frank? You know a guy named Eddie Gluskin?"

"Eddie, yeah man, he's my best friend," said Frank.

"Rude. I'm sitting like, right here," said the other man, looking up from his phone. He glanced at Miles. "Why're you lookin' for Eddie?"

"I'm not," said Miles, putting both hands on the table and bending at the waist to observe the reaction of both men. "I'm looking for Waylon Park."

Frank nodded his head, immediately, though Dennis had no visible reaction.

"Oh sure, man, Way's not here right now…"

"Lemme guess," said Dennis, sitting forward in his chair, the table creaking slightly. "Miles Upshur?"

"You," said Miles, accusingly, gray eyes narrowing to slits. "You're the one that called me! Who are you?"

"Name's Dennis. Nice to meet you."

"You said you knew where Waylon was! Where is he, _asshole_? I know he's with Eddie, I just don't know _why-_ yet. I'm not leaving until I talk to him."

"I'm afraid he's not with us anymore," said Dennis.

Miles heart stopped. "W-what?"

"Yeah, man," said Frank, shaking his head and causing long hair to sway. "…Way's not here…"

* * *

Eddie paced back and forth in front of the small dressing room set aside for Waylon. As the only male model at the event, Waylon was allotted a private dressing room. He was currently in his room, alone with Heather and Valerie, the two beauty-shop employees from Leadville.

Eddie had hired the women to do Waylon's makeup and hair. He had also assumed that, since there were no half-dressed women in the room, he would be allowed to watch Waylon's progress. He had been curtly dismissed by the ladies.

"We need to do our work without you trying to keep a thumb on everything," said Valerie, frowning with a can of hairspray poised in her hands. "Trust me. It'll be fine."

"I do not trust either of you _whores…_ "

"You know your art, now let us do ours, puddin', we only want to help," said Heather before shutting the door. Eddie immediately tried the handle. Locked. Instead, he paced in the hallway for damn near an hour before there was a noise on the other side of the door.

"You ready?" came Valerie's voice.

"Hurry it up," growled Eddie. There was some murmured discussion before the _click_ of a door opening. Valerie and Heather were standing with their hands out framing an absolute vision.

Waylon's hair had grown longer since his arrival in Leadville, and the ladies had given him a nice style without cutting too much length. Blond hair was swept into a hairstyle that fit beautifully with the crystal encrusted comb that held the veil Eddie had chosen.

It took a moment for Eddie to detect that Waylon was wearing makeup. Heather had done such an expert job of making the makeup look natural, while still highlighting Waylon's features, and contouring his face. The dark lashes around his brown eyes commanded Eddie's attention, and the tiny bits of color at his cheeks and lips gave him an innocent glow. The entire picture of Waylon in the wedding gown was too perfect.

"Darling, you look…"

"Perfect!" said Valerie.

"Amazing!" said Heather.

"Beautiful," said Eddie, reaching out his hand toward Waylon. Waylon accepted, and they held hands for a moment, staring only at one another, oblivious to the two women making sappy faces at the cute display. "Let's get you to the stage."

Backstage was crowded with models in gigantic wedding dresses. Assistants lurked around every corner, spraying hair spray and barking commands. Designers fretted over last minute details, and all manner of personnel attempted to patrol the area. Heather and Valerie were trailing behind Waylon, holding up his massive chapel length train to avoid getting dirt on the fabric.

As Eddie led Waylon through the halls, many people stopped and did a double take at the man in the dress. Some talked behind their hands. The expressions ranged from impressed, to surprised, and some others were confused. Eddie kept his chin up, happy to see that Waylon was consumed by his own nerves, and oblivious to the reactions of others.

Eddie talked to a stage manager who helped get Waylon into position. The line was slowly moving toward the curtains which led to the main stage. Waylon had only to walk down the center aisle once, turn around, and walk backstage. He would be required to pose for photographs before, and directly following, his walk, for future reference of the judges. All he had to do was not fall. Eddie rubbed Waylon's arm as they waited.

"It's going to be great. Just walk straight. It's just out and back," said Eddie.

"I'm worried I'm going to fail. I feel like if you lose, it's because I'm a man, and not a good model, and people think I'm weird…"

He had to pause because somehow Heather had produced a full bottle of hair spray and a comb from the front of her shirt and began last minute spritzing Waylon's hair.

"If we lose, it's because the judges went with a different designer. It has nothing to do with you. If they are, in some way, prejudiced, against a man wearing a gown, I won't apologize for that. That's their issue, not ours," said Eddie.

"But if you'd just made a wedding dress for a woman, you could have won—nothing I've seen here rivals this dress!"

"I've been designing gowns for women all of my life. I've never enjoyed creating a gown, as much as I enjoyed making this one. Not because it's for a man, but because it's for you. You look beautiful. You're going to do great. I can't thank you enough for bringing my most magnificent creation to life…"

Waylon's cheeks turned pinker, and it was not the makeup. The line was moving steadily, and soon there were only a handful of models in front of Waylon. Eddie leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, carefully, to avoid messing up his makeup. "I love you."

The stage manager was talking to Waylon. It was possible he did not hear the sentiment, but he put his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and as soon as the midnight blue curtains were pulled back slightly, he stepped forward. Valerie and Heather carefully held the train until it was tugged out of their hands and they heaved a sigh of relief when it floated down into the perfect position. It trailed behind Waylon like his own personal white cloud.

It felt like an eternity before the curtains opened again on the opposite side of the stage, and Waylon was rushed to a platform where he stood straight while several flashes went off simultaneously. He turned a few different angles before being dismissed.

"How did we do?" asked Waylon. Eddie could not see anything from backstage, but he beamed nonetheless.

"Perfect."

The rest of the show was spent backstage, watching Waylon attempt to get comfortable in his twenty pound dress. The women brought him drinks with straws to avoid smearing his lipstick, and there was a small moment of panic when a carrot dipped in ranch dressing almost landed on Waylon's lap. Otherwise, the show passed uneventful, and the group was able to relax. Eddie forgot to be nervous about winning. He was too engrossed with watching Waylon in his gown.

The judges were finally ready to announce the winners, and all of the designers participating were called away. Eddie took Waylon's hand and led him to wait in the wings of the stage. There were several categories, and smaller awards, given out. Each announcement was met with a roar of applause and an extremely excited designer rushing on stage.

Eddie waited calmly, but failed to snag any of the awards. Soon, the only available award was the final prize. Eddie had either won nothing—or everything.

"It is without hesitation," boomed the announcer, "that we award this year's top prize to the wedding dress that not only stands out due to its superior craftsmanship and creative design, but also stands out as a shining example of gender equality. This year's winner is Eddie Gluskin of Leadville, Colorado!"

Eddie's face drained of all color, and his jaw dropped. The raucous cheers became a distant din as Waylon grabbed his cheeks and pulled him in for a hard kiss. "You did it," said Waylon, unshed tears glittering in his brown eyes.

"Darling, I…" Eddie pulled Waylon against himself so tightly, all of the intricate beading seemed like spiky pebbles between their bodies. Eddie did not care—he never wanted to let go. "I couldn't have done this without you. You're…I love you."

"I love you, too," said Waylon, pulling away from Eddie's embrace to wipe away a single tear. "If we weren't already married—I would marry you again, right this second. I'm dressed for it, and everything. But, you really need to go get your award…"

"Ah, right, sorry," said Eddie, pulling away and rushing toward the stage.

"Good job, Long Dong Johnson!" Waylon screamed, the words melting into the sound of the crowd's cheering, but still clear as day in Eddie's ears.

Eddie stepped up and accepted his prize. He was allowed to approach the microphone for a quick statement. He stood tall in his tuxedo and cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, I have to thank the one person who supported me, believed in me, and pushed me every step of the way. My husband, and model, none of this would be possible without your love and support."

Eddie was ushered away by a swarm of attendants-off to make official statements to the news.

Waylon thought his chest might burst with pride. He started to walk to the aisle to exit the auditorium. He had a mind to mingle in the atrium where the free drinks were being served following the show. He found himself stopped, abruptly, by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Waylon?"

Waylon's eyebrows lifted as he turned toward the person. He did not recognize the woman. "I'm sorry, have we met?" He gave a cordial smile and studied the woman's face.

"Waylon! It's Lisa, are you blind?. What on…why are you modeling wedding dresses? Where have you been? What the _hell_ happened to you! Everyone thought you ran away because of all the work stress, and wedding stress and…your credit cards and bank accounts being spent…"

"I go by Wayde now, not Waylon, and…Wha…I don't…"

A man with slick, black hair walked up behind Lisa, staring at Waylon with cold, blue eyes.

"Jeremy Fucking Blaire," muttered Waylon.

"Park," said Jeremy. "Where the hell have you been? We have problems back at the office, and no one knows more about the system than you. You better have a good excuse for hiding out in Denver playing dress-up…"

"I remember," whispered Waylon, though in the crowded room it was undecipherable. He continued to mumble to himself as he broke out in a panic. He was standing in a room full of people, wearing a wedding dress. His boss, and fiancee, were staring at him. He couldn't breathe. He started to run but the dress was too large and unwieldy.

"Help…No…I have to get… **Eddie Gluskin** ," he growled the name.

He remembered everything. Eddie was the asshole tailor that Lisa had insisted he ripoff, because she didn't like the dress color. **He** was the customer that almost bankrupted Eddie. And then, through some sick twist of fate, Eddie had taken advantage of him for the past… "How long have I been missing?"

"Almost three months," said Lisa. She was cowering close to Jeremy, as though afraid Waylon might make some sort of aggressive move. "Are you alright? You're sweating, and you look pale…"

"I'm not alright. I'm not _fucking_ alright…I have to go home…"

His apartment in Denver, not the house in Leadville with his flower gardens and his dogs and his hus…

" _NO_!" Waylon screeched, bringing his hands up to his ears. The memories were flooding back too soon, mixing with his new reality-confusing who he was. The computer tech that enjoyed hiking, or the seamstress assistant that once made a jump on a motorcycle. "I just need…I need to lie down…"

Waylon began walking toward the door with Lisa and Jeremy struggling to keep up through the crowd which seemed to part in front of Waylon before closing behind him to stare at the back of his gorgeous dress. He was almost to the doors when he ran directly into…

"Eddie," said Waylon, his facial features twisted with rage.

"Darling? Where are you going?" asked Eddie, his smile faltering slightly.

"Home," said Waylon, trying to push past Eddie to get to the door.

"But there's a reception! And we have dinner with the mayor for winning the award. We can't go home right now…"

"Not your home. _My home_ ," said Waylon, his tone cold and knife sharp. "I remember, Eddie. I remember _everything_."

"Oh…shit. Please, let me explain, at least let me talk to you before…" The sentiment was broken off when Waylon's fist connected with Eddie's jaw, catching him off guard.

"No," said Waylon, spit flying as he shouted. "I can't believe you thought you could get away with this. Do you have any idea what you've put me through?! You _fucked_ me—literally. Stay the hell away from me."

Eddie attempted to argue, but was cut off when Lisa and Jeremy blocked his view of Waylon and glared. Eddie's mouth flapped, but he could not find any words in his defense or damnation.

Waylon walked out of the auditorium wearing Eddie's award winning wedding dress.


	16. Chapter 16: Recovered Memories

**Chapter 16: Recovered Memories**

What time was it? Waylon looked around the house, searching for his clocks. They were conspicuously missing.

In fact, Waylon recognized almost nothing in his own apartment, but his key still opened the door. Was this Lisa's work?

Waylon had barely noticed what else might have changed. He had been staring at the ceiling above the couch. Minutes. Hours? Without a clock, he had no fucking idea.

The door opened. There was no knock. It could only be one person.

"If Jeremy Blaire is with you, I swear to fucking god…" said Waylon, not bothering to divert his gaze from the ceiling.

"I'm alone, it's just me," said Lisa. She had the decency to sound slightly guilty.

"Where are my clocks?" asked Waylon.

"So, what… _clocks_?" asked Lisa.

"Mmhmm."

"Clocks?"

"What part of the question is unclear?"

"The part where you were missing for almost three months, then you show up wearing a wedding dress in a fashion show, and I walk into our apartment, and you ask me about _clocks_?" said Lisa. Her heels made a hollow clicking sound on the laminate wood flooring as she walked into the living area.

"Yeah, well, they're missing," said Waylon, kicking his legs off the couch, and coming to an upright, seated position. He wore one of his old t-shirts from college, featuring the Dave Matthew's Band, and some ancient khaki cargo shorts.

"Why are you dressed like that?" asked Lisa.

"I wasn't sure what clothes in the master closet were _mine_ , and which were _his_. I didn't want to risk it, so I dug out of the bottom of the drawer."

"Well, you look…homeless," said Lisa. She was wearing a short black dress with a white and teal pattern swirling around the edges which perfectly matched her pumps. She had been wearing the same outfit earlier, at the show. The show where…

Waylon put his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands. "I want you to leave."

"Waylon, where have you _been_ ; what _happened_ to you? How could you just…just vanish while I was planning to marry you? You bailed on the company, you bailed on me…"

"I bailed on _you_? Me. You believe that… _I_ bailed on _you_."

"What was I supposed to think? You never came home, I waited…"

"You waited, what? A day? Was Jeremy waiting back in the city for you, after you drove off without me? I had an accident, Lisa, I was _hurt_ , I was _injured_ , and I was _alone_. You left me when I needed you the most."

"It was a mistake," said Lisa, her voice growing thicker. "Okay? A mistake to leave you there, that's true, and I am sorry for what happened to you, but it was just that, an accident. I made a mistake, you got hurt, but I didn't do any of the horrible things that happened to you. I'm not responsible for any of the crimes that happened in Leadville!"

"Where are my clocks, Lisa?" asked Waylon.

"Ugh," said Lisa, stopping to sniffle. Waylon could not divine whether they were real or fake. Lisa was too good of an actress. "You're still on about the clocks? They didn't match the decor anymore, I tossed some, moved others, what does it matter? It's not like there's no clocks, the time is on the oven, the cable box, the…"

"Didn't match the decor? I can't even recognize my own fucking apartment, who paid for this? Did _you_ get a job?"

Lisa had no answer. She fidgeted in her fancy dress, which suddenly seemed a size too small, considering the way she was tugging at the neckline.

"I paid for this," said Waylon, stating the obvious.

"We have shared cards, we have shared bank accounts, we share an apartment…"

"So while I was imprisoned away from home, injured and confused, you redecorated my apartment, with my money, without so much as consulting me, or trying to find me?"

"You've disappeared before," said Lisa, scrunching up her face. "You scheduled a work vacation without so much as notifying me, and were gone into the Canadian Rockies for two weeks. Don't remember the summer you and Miles took off after some band? It was only months after your parents' accident, and then you just vanished, I was so worried! This time, I saw the card being charged at a bus station, and then in New York City. I assumed you were just, doing what you do, leaving…"

"That's bullshit," said Waylon.

"Check the credit card receipts, it's all there," said Lisa, pausing to sniff loudly, and wipe her nose on the back of her hand. She managed to make the gesture appear dainty and proper.

"So you thought I was gone," said Waylon, shaking his head. "How long did you wait, before you hooked up with Jeremy? Before you started spending my cash like it was a limited time offer?"

"It wasn't like that…" said Lisa.

"I suppose the credit card receipts will tell us that, too," said Waylon, and Lisa's face fell further. "That's what I thought."

"I thought you were only gone a little while, that you would return," said Lisa.

"Well, I'm back," said Waylon, standing up from the couch and holding out his hands with his fingers flared. "Did you miss me?"

"I did, yes," said Lisa, her voice sounding on the verge of tears. "But there are, well, you were missing, it was a terrible accident, but in the meantime you were fired and I, well, Jeremy…"

"Why Jeremy?" asked Waylon, walking into the kitchen where his laptop was resting on the counter. He was lucky Lisa had not damaged it in any way. He stared at the screen as he entered information. "Of every person in the world, you chose my boss, the man who made my life hell, who breathed down my neck, and forced me to code things _I wasn't comfortable coding_. That, disgusting lowlife...you left me for that?"

"Jeremy is ambitious," said Lisa, holding her head up, higher. "He's successful. He's handsome, and he's very attentive to my needs. He makes time away from work to spend with me…"

"Oh nice, something I couldn't do, _because_ of said dickhead," said Waylon. He'd located the credit card history and scrolled to the past months, spotting the New York charges. As well as a month's worth of Lisa's spending. He cringed.

"It doesn't matter, this whole, terrible ordeal you experienced, you're back home, but I moved on, and I'm sorry. I know that hurts you. And I am here for you, as a friend."

"You…friends? Are you…? Be reasonable, Lisa, I want you out. Now. Get your things and leave. I'm taking you off of my cards, and accounts, _immediately_ , and you can stay the hell away from me, or else I will press charges. Stealing from an amnesiac? Leaving your fiance, injured and vulnerable? So just, remove your stuff first thing in the morning. And you're not welcome to stay here tonight. You can turn over your key after you move out tomorrow."

"Waylon, I'm willing to purchase this place from you, I came to tell you that as well, Jeremy is willing to…"

"I said, get the fuck out," said Waylon, shaking his head and grinning. "Your name was never on this lease. This is my place. You can fuck off. Take your shit, and don't bother me again, because I'd rather burn this place to the ground, than sell it to Jeremy Blaire."

The outburst seemed to finally convince Lisa. She left without so much as a goodbye, heels clacking in her wake. Waylon returned to his perch on the unfamiliar couch. He hoped she would take it away in the morning. It was uncomfortable. And bright, lime green.

Waylon finally located the time on the cable box, and saw that it was seven o'clock. Just the time when he and Eddie would finish their dinner, and curl up in front of the television. Where he would check his online auctions, to see if they were bringing in money. Throw treats to the dogs. Try to steal Eddie's attention away from whatever was droning on the television.

But that night, they would have been celebrating. Dinner with the mayor. Press-conferences. Eddie refusing to let him out of his sight while wearing the crowning jewel of his life's work in wedding fashion. Was Eddie still in Denver? Was he upset?

Waylon pinched his eyes closed. Thinking about Eddie was dangerous. He needed to talk to someone. Waylon still had no cell phone, assuming it stolen. Instead, he fired off an email.

 _Miles? Can you come over? I really need to talk to you._

* * *

"I came as quickly as I could," said Miles, walking in carrying a twelve-pack of bottle beers. Waylon forced a sad smile for his friend.

"Sorry to call so late…"

"I would have been here sooner, but I was in Leadville," said Miles.

"I just felt like…wait, what? You were in _Leadville_?" asked Waylon.

"Yeah, sorry," said Miles, pushing past Waylon into the dining area. He put his own coffee down and shrugged out of his brown leather jacket. "Did you talk to Lisa?"

"Yeah," said Waylon, his throat suddenly tight. "Told me I was gone for almost three months, and that she didn't even look for me, and she's marrying my fucking boss…not that I have that job anymore."

"Okay, she didn't look, but I _did_ ," said Miles, pausing to give Waylon a meaningful stare. "I looked, and I found you."

"I know," said Waylon, joining Miles in the dining area. The table and chairs were the only familiar piece of furniture in the tiny nook. "Eddie gave me your business card. He told me to call you."

"Really? Why the hell would he give you that card?" asked Miles.

"Because he wasn't…because he wanted me to remember, he cared about me…"

"Why didn't you call?" asked Miles.

"I…don't know, I was happy the way things were, I didn't know who I would be calling, or what I would learn…"

"So it's true then, you really didn't remember me? Or anything?"

"How did you know that?" asked Waylon, eyebrows knitting.

"I talked to your boys," said Miles, sinking into a chair. It creaked under his weight. "Frank and Dennis."

"Wait, in Leadville?"

"Yeah," said Miles, grinning as he used a bottle opener on his keychain to open a beer.

"What'd you think?" asked Waylon, unable to stop a grin as he thought about Miles walking up to Frank and Dennis. He could picture it easily. Frank with his goofy grin and dirty apron. Dennis with his grumpy exterior, always on his phone, but somehow always hyper aware of everything around him.

"I think they were complacent in a crime and contributed to the kidnapping of my best friend."

"Oh," said Waylon. That was true. But he had not seen them that way. "They knew. I'm still, remembering, and handling, everything. Of course they knew the whole time."

"They said you had some accident, but no one knew what happened, but I think I might have pieced it together," said Miles, a smug look on his face.

"I fell, I remember," said Waylon, sitting down and accepting another open beer from Miles. He had brought Waylon's favorite local brew. "I fell off of the…the gazebo…" The same gazebo where Eddie had taken him. Where he had played music, and handed Waylon the business card, and begged him to remember.

"No one knew, I had to tell them, but after that, they admitted that Eddie had brought you back, and you had amnesia. No memories. They convinced you that you were married to Eddie, and that you wore dresses…"

"In addition to a bunch of other ridiculous bullshit, did they mention that?"

"What, well, I assume they lied about everything…"

"They told me I rode motorcycles, and ate hot wings, and put me to work in Eddie's shop, and no one did a damn thing to try to…"

Except Waylon could vividly remember Dennis' face that day on the trails. He had told Waylon he did not have to do things people told him to.

"The one, Dennis, he called me. Weeks ago. Gave me a tip about Waylon Park, and I traced his call to Leadville. He said he wanted to help you but, when I asked why he didn't call back and clarify, he said you seemed…too happy."

"I was," said Waylon.

"So you really remembered nothing?

"I didn't remember you, not your name, I couldn't remember mom or dad's accident, or college, or Lisa, or any of you. It was like a complete blank."

"Were you scared," asked Miles, concerned gray eyes meeting Waylon's brown.

"At first, yeah," said Waylon. "You should have seen this guy's house. Shit." Waylon started to laugh, and had to set his beer down to keep from jostling it when he shook. "Like, right out of a scene of _Hoarding: Buried Alive_. You could barely walk in there, everything was boxes, and trash, and clothes, and three dogs. Cutest…damn dogs in the world. I miss them."

Miles cleared his throat to draw Waylon's thoughts back to the present. "So you were scared of this guy. But he didn't hurt you?" Waylon shrugged. "He beat you?"

"No," said Waylon, looking offended. "He never hurt me, physically."

"But…Lisa said…that _you_ said…that he…"

"Oh good, you talked to Lisa?" said Waylon, taking a drink in order to wash the ugly name out of his mouth. "Eddie didn't force me, he didn't hurt me."

"It was rape, Waylon," said Miles, dropping his voice low. "Rape by omission. He did hurt you, and abuse you, and you should press charges."

Waylon sighed, and shook his head. "He refused," he said, chuckling. "He refused to touch me. I asked— _begged_. He told me he didn't want me to come to him because of some marriage, or a past I couldn't remember. He only wanted me, if I wanted him, based only on what I knew since waking up."

"So what? He lied, you were only in that situation because…"

"I wanted him. And…and it was good," said Waylon, picking his beer back up and taking a long drink. "Really good." Miles diverted his eyes, shifting in his seat. "Best sex of my entire life."

"Okay, damn, guy's got a magic dick, I get it. But still, what he did was wrong. He hurt you."

"He saved me," said Waylon, sighing. "He saved me from a life of working at Murkoff, married to Lisa. Can you imagine? I'm so glad I dodged those bullets."

"Well, even if that was for the better, all of his lying and abuse was not necessary for you to escape those things…"

"Like I said, it was consensual."

"You can't consent in that situation. He preyed on you for some petty revenge. He's the lowest kind of person," said Miles. "Press charges."

"Drop it, alright," said Waylon. "I don't think I can talk about Eddie right now. Every time I think about him, I feel less and less angry, and…I miss him."

"That's not healthy," said Miles.

"Speaking of unhealthy, Lisa really kicked my finances in the balls."

"I knew about that," said Miles. Waylon's eyebrows perked up in interest. "I canceled your card. She was pissed. I told her to quit spending your money."

"Well, you were about two months too late, but I appreciate the effort." Waylon gave a humorless chuckle and another long sip. "She's moving out in the morning. Or else I'm calling a truck to haul it all to the dump. I have to figure out what I'm going to do, now."

"It's late, you've been through a lot, you're feeling overwhelmed, let's just revisit the issue in the morning."

"You're right," said Waylon, the weight of the evening, plus the alcohol from the beers—when had he drunk two?

He stood up and stared toward the bed. The large, empty bed, glaring at him from the bedroom. He did not remember when he started to cry, but Miles was there with a warm hug. He did not leave until Waylon was tucked in, and quietly crying himself to sleep.

* * *

Waylon had wanted to sleep in, possibly forever, but the movers arrived at the crack of dawn. The halls of his apartment were so much emptier without the gaudy furniture, the trendy art on the walls—they even took all the coverings off the bed.

For a man who had made a hefty salary at an international corporation, Waylon owned very little. He tended to spend his money on vacations. Things come and go but vacations make memories, and those last forever.

So he had thought.

Waylon stared around the empty rooms and felt cold. Lonely. He sat on the old dining set the movers had left him, staring at his computer. Or more accurately, staring at pictures on his computer. Pictures from the recent Denver Bridal Competition.

There he was—or not him, _Wayde Gluskin_ , the caption read. Strutting across a stage in a heavy monstrosity of a dress. The lighting looked nice. He looked like a real model. He should have spent last night cheering on Eddie, having dinner with the mayor, posing for pictures in magazines, and giving comments to reporters. Instead, he of sitting alone in an empty apartment.

This was the right choice?

A loud knock on the door pulled Waylon from his thoughts. He tripped over himself to let Miles into the apartment. He was glad to see his friend wearing his brown leather jacket over a crumpled, untucked shirt, and dark jeans.

Miles took two steps into the entryway and looked around. "Um, what the hell happened?"

"Lisa sent movers, and they took her stuff."

"There's nothing in here? Why did you let her take everything? She bought it all with your money!"

"She took the car, too," said Waylon, smiling much too cheerfully.

"Wha—why would you let her?" asked Miles.

Waylon walked to the middle of the empty room, and took a deep breath. "I like it better now. I can breathe. There's something very comforting about just, wiping the slate clean…"

"And what's with the shirt?"

Waylon looked down at his blouse. "What's wrong with it?"

"I'm pretty sure I've seen Lisa wearing that same shirt before," said Miles, walking into the kitchen and raiding the fridge.

"Yeah, I found it in the laundry room, fell behind the dryer, and it fits."

"Don't you have your own clothes? Lisa took your clothes too?!"

"No, I'm wearing it by choice," said Waylon, turning to watch Miles' reaction carefully. "My choice. I want to wear this. I like it. It's a nice material, and the royal blue looks great with my hair."

Miles paused with two beers, held by the neck, in one hand and shut the fridge quietly behind himself. "Okay? Wear whatever you want." Miles walked to the lonely dining set and placed both of the beers on the table, taking time to open them each. "It's different from your old style."

"I had a style?" asked Waylon, a wry grin appearing on his face. "And it's not even noon yet. Why are you drinking?"

"Because I figured you'd need a drink?"

"Don't you have to be at work?" asked Waylon, raising an eyebrow at his friend. He finally noticed the wrinkled state of Miles' shirt, the casual clothing, and the stubble on his chin.

"I quit," said Miles, grabbing one of the beers and pulling it to his lips, "Or, technically, I was fired, but I was going to quit."

"What happened?" asked Waylon, walking quickly to put a sympathetic arm around his friend's shoulders.

Miles' back stiffened and he stood up strait, holding his beer. "Um, well, they wanted me to work the Denver Bridal Show all weekend long, and I couldn't, because I had just talked to Chris Walker, and…"

"That name," said Waylon, pursing his lips, his arm falling slightly until only his hand was squeezing Miles' shoulder. "I feel like I know it…" Waylon's eyes began to dart around. The feeling of knowing, but not quite knowing-remembering _something_ , but not _everything_. It was a feeling that left him feeling very anxious, after his ordeal.

"Well, probably, he's pals with Eddie, but he skipped town with your wallet, after dropping you at the hospital."

Waylon let out a quiet 'oh' as he exhaled. Even with all of his memories returned, he was still fuzzy about the minutes directly after his accident. He could remember falling, but not hitting the ground, and being led into the hospital by a large, helpful man.

"Chris told me there was no way Gluskin had a husband, said Gluskin used to date his sister, and wasn't dating anyone. That's how I knew I had to get down there, and ask more questions about Wayde Gluskin which, honestly, that's hardly even much of a cover, how could I be so stupid…"

"Hey," said Waylon, pulling Miles into a hug. "You didn't know. I'm sorry you lost your job because of me. Thank you for looking for me."

"Okay, you are like, ten thousand times more touchy than you used to be," said Miles, causing Waylon to lift his arms from around Miles and take a step back, holding his hands up.

"Sorry? I, um, guess I never, realized…"

"It's cool but, I mean, just, seems out of character, like you're not back to yourself, quite yet. You're sure you're feeling alright? Maybe you need to see a doctor, or talk to someone…"

"How can I go back, Miles?"

"I'm not saying take Lisa back, or go to Murkoff, but…"

"Can you go back to the way you were three months ago? Go back to being the guy who had a job, and a friend, and you'd never had to experience all that stress of finding me, and dealing with Lisa, just, go back to that person, right now…"

"I'm not quite sure I under…"

"It's impossible," said Waylon, frowning as he grabbed his beer, more aggressive than necessary. He brought it to his mouth, causing it to bubble and foam, adding to Waylon's frustration.

"Look, take it easy," said Miles, putting his own beer down and grabbing each of Waylon's shoulders, forcing him to face him. "I choose a poor way to phrase it, I apologize. You can't go back, no one can…"

Waylon took a long drink from the beer—long enough that Miles raised an eyebrow. "Thirsty?"

"I have a lot on my mind…"

"Well, I'm here to help," said Miles, walking out into the mostly empty living room. "We need to start a list, maybe. Like, things you need to do. Uh, I guess furniture?"

"Who needs it."

"Um, a mode of transportation?"

"I"m already on it."

"Well, that's encouraging, you're actually being productive, I was worried that you're still stuck on this guy, and…"

"And I called the travel agent, the trip to Patagonia for our honeymoon, it's still on, and I can switch the ticket to someone else, or go alone. Since you've got some free time, why not go with me?"

"Ugh, you know me and hiking…"

"Oh, come on," said Waylon, pausing to take another sip. "You can handle it, you're young, you're healthy. You can skip the days with the most intense walks. It's going to be amazing, it's almost to Antarctica it's so far South. I want to see it. I'm not going to let that bitch take that from me. She can have the things, but I'm keeping the memories."

"Jesus, okay, you're so dramatic today, and…" Miles was silenced by an icy stare from Waylon. "Okay, that was uncalled for, you have a right to be upset…"

"I'm not upset," said Waylon, sighing. "I don't even know what I am."

"We'll get through it," said Miles, walking down the short apartment hallway. "Damn, she didn't even leave you any sheets? What a bitch. What about the extra bedroom, anything left in there you could use out here?"

"Don't go in there!" called Waylon down the hall, jumping up from the table. But it was too late. Miles was staring into the room with a disapproving frown.

"I'm guessing that's not Lisa's, since she would have definitely taken it…"

"No, it's not Lisa's, it's," Waylon shook his head. It wasn't Eddie's. Eddie made it for _him_. "It's mine."

"Okay, add disposing of _that_ bad memory to the list of things to do…"

"I don't want to destroy it," said Waylon, lifting his chin as he returned Miles' stare. "I'm keeping it. It's mine. It's very expensive. It won awards."

"It's a wedding dress?" asked Miles, confused.

"So?" snapped Waylon. "It's my wedding dress, made _specifically_ for me, and I'm keeping it. End of discussion."

"Shit, you _do_ need to talk to someone," said Miles, shaking his head. "Like, really. Waylon, it's going to take time, but you need to be focused on moving forward, you need to heal from this trauma, and you need to pick up with your life, find a new job…"

"I've got that handled," said Waylon, mouth twitching as he attempted to conceal a smug grin.

"Let's just take it easy then," said Miles. "We'll go hiking. We'll take some time off. I'm…probably going to lose my apartment soon, can I crash here on your…" Miles glanced at the vacant spot that used to be a couch, "…floor?"

"What if I like men?" asked Waylon.

"Then you like guys, it's not the end of the world," said Miles, shrugging off his brown leather jacket as he walked out of the hallway, and back into the kitchen. "I've dated guys."

"Wait, you're _gay_? How could I not know my best friend is _gay_?"

"I'm bisexual," said Miles, as it was as common as commenting on the weather.

"I thought that was just for girls."

"Wow," said Miles, attempting to smother a chuckle. "See, that's why I never talked to you about it. You were always so prude. You didn't even tell me about having sex with Lisa until you guys had been dating officially for over two years."

"That's because we didn't have sex for that first two years…"

"You…you didn't, oh man, that's so sad," said Miles, frowning. "Well, you didn't tell me she accepted your proposal, either. Not until you already had a down payment on a location!"

"Because you were so against it! Always trying to talk me out of it!"

"Well, yeah, because she's a lousy bitch, and I stand by that," said Miles, holding up his beer in a mocking salute before taking a sip.

"Yeah kinda gotta give you that one," said Waylon, grumbling as he took another sip of his own beer, only to find it empty.

"I understand, if you're having a tough time with all this, you're allowed, and people come to grips with their sexuality at different times in their lives. If this terrible situation helped you get closer to figuring it out, then maybe that's one benefit of this whole mess."

"Kiss me," said Waylon, setting down his empty bottle louder than necessary.

"Um, no," said Miles, eyebrows narrowed in a line.

"Why not? You said you're bisexual," said Waylon, stepping closer to Miles.

"You don't walk up to a woman and ask her to make out because she's straight and you're straight, so why do it with a guy?" asked Miles, scoffing as he clutched his beer in front of his chest, keeping it between him and Waylon.

"You need me to buy you dinner first, or something?" asked Waylon.

"I think you're missing the point of his illustration," said Miles, rolling his eyes.

"You don't think I'm attractive?" asked Waylon, hurt creeping into his tone. He remembered the way Eddie used to stare at him. As though he were some kind of mystical creature, manifested on Earth,. The way Eddie had touched him, and kissed him, and called him _beautiful_.

"You're alright, but you're like a brother to me, so no thanks…" said Miles.

"Please? Come on, you owe me," said Waylon, frowning.

"Do I have to?" asked Miles, frowning so intensely his face was contorted.

Waylon pressed his lips to Miles, smothering whatever other complaint Miles was going to make. The contact persisted for several heartbeats, before Waylon pulled away, and stared at Miles. They both frowned.

"That was awful," said Waylon.

"You can't just kiss anyone you see, you wouldn't just go practice kissing your family members, Jesus, now…"

"I think you were doing it wrong," said Waylon.

"You're an idiot," said Miles. "I'm an excellent kisser."

"Says who?" asked Waylon.

Miles brought up one hand to the back of Waylon's head and pulled him in and forced their lips together in another kiss. Miles' lips moved against Waylon's, and the smallest hint of tongue teased along Waylon's lips. When the kiss broke, Waylon sighed.

"Yeah, nothing," said Waylon.

"You wanna suck my dick? You know, just to be sure…"

"Be reasonable," said Waylon.

"Bro job?"

"Shut up," said Waylon.

"It's okay to not be attracted to every man, are you really this dense? Rushing out and jumping into a relationship, even a one night stand, after what you've been through? Not a good idea. But if you wanna meet guys, we can go out-I'll take you out. I'm an excellent wingman."

"I just want Eddie," said Waylon.

"That's the Stockholm's talking," said Miles, frowning. "Get me switched onto that trip. We'll get out of town for a while, hike, do outdoorsy shit, and eat…whatever they eat down in Patagonia, and just, relax. After a couple weeks, we can come back and consider doing some bar crawls…"

"Two weeks without sex," said Waylon, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Who even _are_ you?! You used to clam up if anyone even _mentioned_ sex."

Waylon stared down at his bare feet. "I don't even know, anymore."

* * *

A bare mattress and one battered lamp were all Lisa's movers had left in the bedroom. The lamp sat on the floor; Waylon on the mattress.

He wore his own pajamas, having discarded Lisa's shirt after his shower. He had spent more time pressing his forehead against the tile, staring at the drain, than he had spent actually washing himself.

What was the point? Not like anyone would be touching him. It was okay if he let his leg hair grow out. The shampoo smelled like chemicals. Had it always? Or was he just missing the smell of Eddie's shower products. The scent of Eddie.

Waylon's laptop shared the mattress, open once again to the local report about the competition. That was bad. He sighed as he scrolled through the article.

Waylon felt proud of the way the photographer had captured him walking down the aisle, all billowing skirt, and flowing veil. He suspected the sparkling effect from the beading and crystals was Photoshop magic, but the result was still stunning. Eddie's work was impeccable, from the style, to the fit, to the careful embroidery. The bodice had fit like a second skin from the very first fitting, despite Eddie never taking a single measurement.

Well, not with a tape measurer. Waylon keenly remembered the feeling of strong hands on his body. The sensation was so strong in that moment he could feel ghost fingers with their calluses from needlework, mapping out his body. Like Eddie had been a blind man and Waylon's body held some braille message vital to human survival. Eddie always made him feel important. Precious. Loved.

Why would he do something like that to someone he hated? If Eddie's motivation as only revenge, why had he kissed Waylon so sweetly? Could someone really fake the way Eddie had held him those nights? Why would he bother to say the words? Was it all to heighten Waylon's pain?

Waylon almost scrolled past a smaller picture on the website. He clicked to enlarge.

Eddie.

He was accepting a large, glass reward and smiling. The soft look on his face; the beaming smile. Happily ignorant of the fact that, a few yards away, Waylon's memory was waking up from hibernation. His new reality and old colliding, and fighting for dominance.

Waylon looked down at his hand, turning it as though he could see the invisible damage. His knuckles felt horribly bruised from where he had punched Eddie. The man he loved. The man that lied to him. Abused him. Maybe Miles was right.

Except Waylon could not stop staring at the picture of Eddie, and remembering all the good things about their relationship.

It was difficult to remember everything from the past months. It reminded him of the only night he had ever drank too much in college. Waylon woke up with a horrible headache, and Miles had laughed while telling him about his evening. He would not have believed half of it, had he not seen the pictures. Waylon surrounded by strangers, grinning stupidly, with a striped tie worn around his head like a headband.

Only this blackout was much worse. Had he really ridden a motorcycle, eaten a slew of hot wings, started a garden, learned to cook, trained three adorable black labs, modeled a wedding gown in a fashion show, and fallen in love with a man?

That was the part that felt the most real. Maybe he had dreamed up all those other antics, but he could never have imagined the way he would tremble, and beg, while another man's cock penetrated him.

Damn. He was hard. He glared at the tent in his pajama pants, refusing to indulge it. Maybe if he could just talk to Eddie. Just hear his voice. Without much thought, Waylon was already bringing up a way to dial phone numbers from his laptop. He typed in the number he still remembered. He could barely breathe as he waited for the line to pick up. It was late, but it would still pick up. Waylon knew it. He waited through the ring tones before he heard it.

"Thank you for calling _Gluskin's Bridal_ , our hours of operation are…"

Wayde Gluskin's voice— _his_ voice—sounded over the small laptop speakers. Waylon slammed the top down, shutting the computer, and curled up on the bare mattress. Quiet sobs shook the mattress as he curled up, alone.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about that last chapter and the cliffhangers! I know that was frustrating, but I just needed to get to that point since we all knew it was coming and it was just, time lol. This chapter is long I know and all focusing on sad Waylon but next chapter is all about Eddie! I really, SUPER cherish and love all these reviews you guys are leaving, I usually don't get this kind of response from this site and I'm just really super happy to have people reading. This is a really fun story! It's 20 chapters! So, we are in the home stretch now! Thanks for reading :)


	17. Chapter 17: Constant Reminders

**Chapter 17: Constant Reminders**

Eddie stood behind the counter, as two photographers roamed the shop, snapping photographs.

"Would you mind if we got an action shot? Maybe, you sitting at a sewing machine?" asked one of the photographers.

"All of the workspaces are in the back room, and I'm afraid the room is not very photogenic," said Eddie, giving a polite smile.

"That's alright, let's pull one out to the front room, and get you sitting behind it…"

Eddie gave a short nod, still smiling. He peered into the back room as the photographers worked. They argued over which sewing machine would photograph the best, and which fabric would look best in the composition. Eddie was distracted.

He was seeing ghosts. The memory of another man in the back room, examining the sewing machines, touching the fabric, and modeling the merchandise. Had that man existed at all?

Eddie went along with all of the suggestions, and posed obediently for the photographs, but he found no joy in the activities. The interview with _Modern Bride_ was already scheduled. Other reporters would follow, probably with their own photographers. Eddie felt overwhelmed by the digital response, finding it difficult to discuss things over email.

Thankfully, he had Dennis. His friend had stepped in to help with the digital aspect, and assist around the shop. He was always on his phone anyways—it was a way to get paid for it.

The reporters finally cleared out, and Eddie prepared to close the shop.

"Hey, I gotta answer these people, they wanna know if you can show up for a segment on the local news," said Dennis.

"I told you, that was fine," said Eddie, sighing.

"Yeah, but they said they want the dress there," said Dennis. Eddie turned to level a flat stare. Dennis held up his hands. "Yeah, I know, we don't have it, and I told them that, but they're really interested. I guess they have a fella that's got some dream of wearing a wedding dress, and as part of some segment, they wanted to dress him in the award winning gown…"

"Well, It's not mine, and I don't have it," said Eddie, shrugging in his vest. "That's all there is to it."

"Frank's working," said Dennis.

"Frank's never actually working" said Eddie.

"You wanna go together?" asked Dennis. Another flat stare from Eddie was his answer. "You haven't been to the Shack all week." The stare continued, unchanged. "Pam's worried."

"My apologies to your cousin, but I'm afraid I'm too tired for conversation tonight."

"How long are you gonna do this, bro? It's been over a week…"

"One week," said Eddie, quietly. "Yes, one incredibly busy week, where I am trying to adjust to…" He gestured weakly toward the empty shop, unable to find the words.

"Have you considered reaching out? Talking to him?" asked Dennis.

"He'd never want to talk to me," said Eddie, scoffing to himself.

"We haven't heard from any lawyers, or law enforcement officers, I'd say that's a good indicator that he's at least not _that_ mad."

"Listen to yourself," said Eddie, chuckling as he shook his head. He flipped the sign over in the window. "When did it become a good sign in a relationship, that one party was not prosecuting the other?"

"It was a special circumstance," said Dennis, sighing. He shut down the work computers, and threw a few papers into the drawer to clear the area.

"I should have listened to you," said Eddie, turning back to watch as Dennis shut off the main lights. "You told me to tell him, and I didn't."

Dennis shrugged, walking toward the door, where Eddie waited. "I don't know. Maybe if you'd told him, he would have left anyways, or maybe he would have tried to understand. It's too late to tell him, but that doesn't mean there's no hope, right?"

Eddie chuckled, and shook his head. "Hope? You sound like Frank. I think you were right the first time. I'm lucky not to be facing a police officer right now."

"Come have a beer," said Dennis, staring at his phone.

"Maybe tomorrow," said Eddie, closing the door behind them as they walked outside. He found himself pausing, as he did every night. Craning his neck, ears on alert. Waiting for some sign of his lover hurrying out from the back room.

He felt Waylon's absence in the truck as he drove home, without their usual conversation. The flowers beside the door were still blooming, and a few forgotten tools lay where Waylon had left them.

The dogs whined when they saw Eddie was alone—again. He did not blame them for their pitiful whimpering, or accusatory stares. He felt the same way.

Eddie heated up a microwaveable dinner, and stared at the mess in the sink. How could a person dirty so many dishes in a week? He should wash them, and put them away. If only he had the energy. Instead, he allowed the mess to stack up on the once clear table.

He ate on his old chair in front of the blurry television. At least the room was still relatively clean. He refused to let his house turn back into some storage shed, after all the hard work Waylon had done.

The life he had found so peaceful and content was empty. Waylon had taken all the joy when he left. But Eddie was not angry. He deserved it, he knew.

He tried to be angry with himself. He played out all the ways he could have handled the situation differently. But inside, Eddie knew he never would have sought a relationship with a man, let alone an engaged customer, if any of the circumstances had been different. It took the perfect alignment of fates for him to have found Waylon, and a gentle miracle that he had grown to love him, and be loved in return.

It was over, but he could not be upset that it had happened. Still, he wanted to believe that maybe he could have won Waylon over, from the beginning, without lying.

But it was a stretch of the imagination.

When Sunday night came around, the boys insisted that Eddie come to the Shack, and he was running out of excuses. The crowd was larger than usual. Damn small town gossip.

Frank and Dennis were not alone when Eddie walked up.

"The man of the hour," said the gruff voice of Chris Walker, holding up a cheap beer. Eddie was used to being the largest man in the room, except when Chris was hanging out. "You know I had some whore call me a murderer because of you."

"Who called you a murderer?" said Eddie, pausing with his hand on a chair.

"Your little friend, accusing me of murdering Waylon Park, when all I did take him to the hospital. I'm a fucking hero."

"Miles actually managed to track Chris down in New York," said Dennis, pausing for a short swig of beer. "That's some investigating. Though Chris made it easy, what with the stealing Waylon's credit card."

Eddie adopted an offensive stance, glaring down where Chris was sitting between Frank and Dennis. When he finally spoke, his voice was deadly and low. "You stole from Waylon?"

Chris grumbled out a laugh, looking around the table and gesturing toward Eddie with his beer.

"You're actually tryin' to be indignant about it?" asked Chris. "Frank told me you convinced the poor bastard you were married to him, after he cost you money. Let's not be the pot and the kettle."

"Is he pressing charges?" asked Eddie.

"No, is he charging you?" asked Chris, grabbing for a fry from a basket on the table. Eddie took the empty chair, sighing in defeat.

"Eddie," came a high pitched voice. Eddie turned to see Valerie and Heather approaching the table.

"We haven't seen you around," said Heather, frowning and shaking her head so that her ponytail swayed.

"It's so sad what happened with Wayde…er, Waylon. You two were awfully happy," said Valeria, smiling.

"And so cute together," agreed Heather.

"But listen, we got someone who wants to meet you," said Valerie, exchanging a quick private smile with Heather. "There's this really cute boy, Billy, he works at the shop with us, part time, working on becoming a barber. He was _really_ impressed with your work…

"And he thinks you're handsome," said Heather, and the two women laughed in harmony.

"Thank you, ladies, but there's no need," said Eddie. "I'm not interested in meeting anyone, I'm just out for a quiet night."

"Oh sure, sure," said Valerie, holding up her hands. "Nice seeing you, anyways. Call me, Dennis."

The entire table of men turned to stare at Dennis as the women walked away. "What?" asked Dennis. "I call her sometimes."

"Hey, we know you've been missing Way, man, so we got together some stuff to help you feel better," said Frank.

"It's hard to take you seriously with your hairnets still on your face," said Dennis, reaching down to pull out a small gift sack. He placed it on the table, and gestured toward it with his hands.

"More lube?" asked Eddie.

"No, you twat, look inside," said Dennis, muttering as he glanced at his phone.

Eddie grumbled as he pulled away familiar tissue paper. In the bottom of the gift bag, there were several photographs. Eddie reached inside, carefully keeping his fingers on the edge of the pictures to avoid smudges. Even at a glance, he could tell they were of Waylon.

"You thought this would cheer me up?" asked Eddie.

"They're pics of Way," said Frank.

"Obviously," said Eddie, throwing a glare across the table. "We all knew about the complications of that relationship. I don't need constant reminders."

"Nah, this is more about, I don't know, paying respects to Way," said Dennis, turning his phone off, and setting it face down on the tabletop. "We miss him, too."

"Yeah, man, it feels like he's…he's gone."

"He is gone, Frank," said Eddie.

"No, but like, really gone, dead," said Frank. "Think about it, man, the Way we knew would never leave you. That great guy is gone, now. He was a friend to me."

"I liked him," said Dennis, nodding.

"He confided in me, once, that he questioned whether you two had a history, Dennis. He thought you were flirting with him," said Eddie, causing Dennis to spit beer. It showered Frank while Chris cackled.

"Not like that!" insisted Dennis.

"There's no shame in being attracted to what you're attracted to," said Frank. "He looked great in those dresses."

"I missed all the fun," said Chris, a frown of genuine disappointment on his large face.

As the guys chatted away, eating and drinking beers, Eddie stared at the photographs. When had Dennis taken them all? There were pictures of Waylon, starting with the first frowning pictures of him in the shop. They continued through so many shared adventures. His birthday party with Waylon squealing over his motorcycle. The day of the hot wing challenge, wearing Eddie's mothers' altered dress. And a surprising amount of candid shots of moments when Eddie had not realized they were being observed.

One picture had Eddie and Waylon at the Shack. Waylon's hand rested gently on top of Eddie's hand on the table. And the smile on his face was soft and real. A picture of Eddie moments after having kissed Waylon with his ghost pepper lips. Pictures of Waylon on his restored motorcycle with his helmet on. A few selfies of Dennis that…seemed to be an accident.

"Tomorrow we have customer appointments," said Dennis.

"When did you take these?" asked Eddie, staring at his untouched food.

"I'm never without my phone—you're aware these things have quality cameras now days, old man?"

"Thank you," said Eddie, standing up and collecting his pictures. "For everything."

"Good luck with business, man," said Frank, as the others gave similar encouragement.

Pamela intercepted Eddie at the door, and forced a bag of take-out and cornbread into his hand. "You don't look like you're eating enough, Eddie."

"I appreciate your concern, Pamela."

"You loved him," said Pamela, pushing out her lips and shrugging. "You made some mistakes, but you loved him. You don't have to give up so quickly. Just give him time."

"You really believe that?" asked Eddie.

Pamela smiled and nodded.

* * *

"I can assure you, this is a standard price for labor and materials, we can consider a less time intensive design, or cheaper materials, in order to bring the overall price down if this piece is outside of your price range, but…"

"Daddy!" squealed the young bride-to-be. She was tall with black hair and honey colored eyes that glistened with unshed tears when she turned them on her father.

"Now, nobody said that was outside of our price-range, you see here, my baby gets what she wants, but I can't believe people will pay over ten thousand dollars for a dress, I don't care if it was on the TV, can we even see that dress? Seems like if you wanna charge these kinda prices, and you wanna claim you're some professional, you should have that piece front and center, you should…"

It took all of Eddie's self control not to walk out of the room. Dennis was watching intently from behind the counter, an amused grin on his face.

"Sir, I can assure you, this is the shop that was featured, the winning piece was my creation, and this is a very standard price for a custom created designer gown, but not everyone can afford…"

"We can afford it!" bellowed the father. The bride-to-be began talking in an obnoxious, whining voice. Eddie sighed. He brought his hand up to the collar of his fine shirt, and began loosening a button behind his tie.

"Uh, what do we do in this situation?" asked Dennis, learning over the counter, and attempting to whisper. He failed. The father and daughter were too busy arguing to have noticed.

Eddie sighed, and gestured toward the combatants. "We sit here, and smile, until the old man gives in, and writes us a check. Then, we do nothing, until we know it's not going to bounce."

"Shit, this is obnoxious," said Dennis, snorting to himself.

"Agreed," said Eddie. He ground his teeth as the pair continue their heated discussion for several minutes. Finally, Eddie cleared his throat. "I apologize, but there's another appointment coming in shortly that, hopefully, can afford my time and services, so if you don't mind?"

"Why, how _dare_ you speak that way, it's her big day, and I will buy her whatever she wants, I'm just not sure your work is as good as you say it is…"

"Then I wish you the best of luck finding someone else, and may they have the patience to deal with what is likely to be a long, arduous chore to appease you both."

"You listen to me, I demand that you write up the invoice, but if you charge even _one cent_ over ten thousand dollars…" the father continued to talk, but Eddie walked over to the counter. "Dennis, handle this," said Eddie, before stalking into the backroom.

"Sure thing, bro," Dennis called after Eddie. He walked confidently up to the pair. "Okay so, it seems to me like you guys are a ripe couple of assholes, so, you should probably just get out of here."

The father and daughter both wore identical expression of shock.

"I stutter? Get the _fuck_ out," said Dennis, gesturing toward the door.

"You have _no right_ …"

"Uh, last I checked, this is a business, and we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, and we're invoking that right, because you guys are a pain in the ass, and we don't have to deal with this. Fuck off, and have a nice day. Thanks for choosing _Gluskin's Bridal_."

The bride-to-be knocked over a mannequin on her as she stormed out. Her father looked like he was about to suffer from a stroke. The pleasant jingling bell seemed out of place.

Dennis hummed to himself, as he walked to pick up the mannequin. The dress had fallen out of place. Dennis was in the middle of pulling the mannequin's dress up, while peeking down the front, when Eddie came up behind him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"What? It's a doll thing, it's not anatomically correct, or anything…"

"The customers," said Eddie, glaring at Dennis. "I told you to deal with them."

"Oh yeah, I dealt with them _real good_."

"That's…that's not what I meant…I meant write up the invoice, like I've shown you…"

"You shoulda been more specific."

Eddie gave an irritated grunt and walked to behind the counter, flipping through his ledger. "What good is all this publicity if I can't land a single job."

"Yeah, but everyone that walks in here is an entitled jerk…"

"That's _every_ customer _everywhere_ ," hissed Eddie. "You have to, work the situation…"

"Well, you're the expert, you shoulda done that part then," said Dennis, giving a flat stare.

"Oh God," said Eddie, flipping back through his book, and staring at several invoices. "How did I ever manage this without him…" He ran his finger along a page that had been filled out with Waylon's handwriting.

"Hey, Way's unemployed right? Offer him a job?"

"You imbecile," said Eddie, exhaling in frustration. "You were always the rational one. You knew from the start it was a bad idea, and you constantly warned me against it, and now I'm left with my mistakes, and surely you, of all people, know the realistic outcome of this situation."

Dennis shrugged, but said nothing.

"Exactly," said Eddie, sighing. "There's another appointment coming in half an hour. Can you, please, just help me, keep cool, until they've signed the contract…"

"I got your back," said Dennis, giving a supportive slap on Eddie's back. He did not feel very comforted.

* * *

It as a regular Thursday night, when Eddie heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching. The dogs began whimpering in the yard. Eddie stood up, and looked out the front window. It was late for Dennis to be dropping by, unannounced, unless there was some emergency.

Eddie flung open the door, wearing striped pajama pants and a white tank top covered with considerable stains and crumbs. He met with a glowering frown.

"W-Wha… _Darling_."

Waylon slapped Eddie square in the jaw with an open hand. "You don't get to call me that, anymore."

Eddie's eyes flashed dangerously as he turned back. Waylon had returned, but this was not the person Eddie remembered. The entitled bastard from the first day was standing on his porch—and by the look of it, aching for a fight.

Part of Eddie wanted to rail back at Waylon. Not only for the old wounds, but for taking the place of his beautiful lover. He kept his emotions in check. Instead, he sighed, and literally turned the other cheek.

Yeah," scoffed Waylon, "because you're a fucking martyr, look at you." Waylon stepped into the house, without being invited, and began petting the dogs. They were beside themselves with joy. Eddie closed the door behind Waylon, brows creased.

"Why are you here, Waylon?"

"Good boy, good boy, good girl, awwwww stinky-stink, you're so stinky. Hey! Stop it, Biter. Have you already forgotten everything I taught you guys? Bash hasn't, right Sebastian? My good boy…"

Eddie cleared his throat to interrupt the reunion. Waylon only glared back over his shoulder, and continued showering the dogs with affection.

"If you're quite…"

Waylon began making obscene kissing noises at the puppies. Eddie rolled his eyes, and walked into the kitchen. He shook the bag of kibble, and waited for the dogs to come running. He dumped a mound of food on the floor, and walked around the pups on his way back. Waylon watched, frowning from the entryway.

"You drove two hours, from Denver, to slap me, and pet the dogs?" asked Eddie.

"More or less," said Waylon, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Would you like to talk?" asked Eddie. He wore the face he had worn when he met Waylon. His professional mask. A look that prevents customers, and friends, from knowing how he was feeling. A coping mechanism, developed early on, when he had to pretend his family was normal—that _he_ was normal.

Waylon's face was similarly void of expression as the men faced off. "Not particularly."

"Then, I'm afraid, I'm at a loss," said Eddie, holding out his hands.

Waylon approached, his face still disinterested. He glanced up and down Eddie's pajamas. "Did you get any of this meal in your mouth?"

Eddie gave an irritated grunt, and started to reply, when Waylon's hand slid under his shirt. A warm hand began outlining his muscles with a soft touch. It tickled.

"Stop that," said Eddie, trying to squirm away, with a grimace. He was still frowning when Waylon kissed him. It was hard—painful. All thin lips and teeth. Waylon's face was contorted, as though unsure if he was even enjoying himself. "Darling, I…"

Another slap came to Eddie's cheek, causing him to bite back a curse. He easily encircled Waylon's wrists with his own hands, and forced them down by Waylon's sides.

"Don't call me that, ever again, you _liar_ ," said Waylon, struggling against his human restraints.

"Stop…hitting…me," said Eddie.

"Fine," said Waylon, before pushing in, and kissing along the bottom of Eddie's throat. The trail of wet kisses soon devolved into biting down—hard enough to bruise.

Eddie gasped from the pain, and attempted to pull Waylon away, while still holding his wrists. Waylon was relentless, sucking hard at Eddie's neck until Eddie was forced to release Waylon's wrists to pry him away.

Eddie's neck felt cool as soon as air hit the wet skin. Eddie rubbed his neck, worrying about a mark. "I really don't understand…"

Waylon stopped any further discussion by pushing up on his toes and shoving his tongue into Eddie's mouth. A rough hand grabbed Eddie's crotch. It was like trying to cut off the heads of a hydra, only to have them grow back, stronger, in greater numbers.

And why was he fighting, anyways?

Eddie growled as he released Waylon's wrists, and grabbed a thick handful of blond hair. He pulled Waylon's head back until it had to hurt, and kissed him. He smothered any complaints with lips and tongue, claiming Waylon's mouth.

Everything about the kiss felt different—the new technique, the muffled noises. But the taste was all Waylon. Eddie was going about it all wrong. If Waylon did not want to talk, at least he could get an honest response from his body.

Waylon's body could not have forgotten him so easily.

When the kiss broke, their mouths hovered apart. Eddie released Waylon's hair, but his chin remained tilted upward. Waylon's eyes were heavily lidded, and he stared away, not meeting Eddie's gaze.

Eddie put his hands on either side of Waylon's hips, and pulled their bodies flush together. He ground his erection into Waylon's hip. He pushed until it was painful—until Waylon whimpered in discomfort.

"Is this what you want?" asked Eddie. Waylon pushed back into Eddie in response. The fabric of Eddie's pajama pants was thin. He could feel every stitch and crease in Waylon's jeans, as their bodies rubbed together. "Why?"

Waylon offered no explanation as he pulled his own dusty t-shirt over his head. Eddie started to question again, until Waylon's fingers tugged at the waistband of his pants.

They tore at one another's clothing, leaving a trail of laundry to the bedroom. First shirts, then pants, and finally underwear flung out the bedroom door, into the hallway. The submissive, patient Waylon from weeks before was gone, replaced with a wild, desperate creature wearing Waylon's skin.

Eddie's mouth went dry when he saw Waylon crawl onto his bed—the bed they shared until recently. He wasted no time crawling on top and kissing him. How he longed to savor that moment. To re-explore every inch of his lover. But Waylon had other plans.

"Lube," demanded Waylon, when they broke for air. Eddie reluctantly pulled away, and reached into the nightstand, bringing out the lube Dennis had gifted Waylon on his fake birthday. It was already half empty. Eddie opened the top, and prepared to coat his fingers, when the bottle was ripped away.

Waylon sat up, leaning back against the bed frame. His face was flushed pink from their previous activities. Waylon spread his legs, erection standing up, and smearing precome across his stomach. Eddie stared as Waylon rotated his hips, and craned his neck, to drip the lube directly onto his perineum. Crystal drops fell onto his skin, and dripped into the crack of his ass.

Eddie got onto his hands and knees, watching with fascination as Waylon put the bottle aside, and reached down. His fingers were coated in lubricant. He pushed the substance around his hole until it glistened, wet and inviting. A strangled sound left Eddie's throat when Waylon pushed in one finger, followed quickly by a second.

"Let me help," said Eddie, reaching out, and spreading Waylon further with his fingers. Waylon sighed happily at the touch, but continued his movements. Eddie stared as two slick fingers slid in and out of Waylon's ass. "Please…"

Waylon grunted, ignoring Eddie's plea. Eddie's attention was caught by a dribble of fluid dripping down Waylon's swaying cock. Eddie leaned forward and swiped his tongue along the underside of Waylon's cock, lapping up the fresh bead. A surprised moan broke Waylon's lips, encouraging Eddie to pay similar attention to the head of his weeping erection. Eddie's tongue lavished Waylon's skin as he fingered himself.

"No," said Waylon, struggling to pull away from Eddie's eager mouth. "Stop."

Eddie growled in frustration, pushing up on his hands and glaring. "You came here to tease me, is that it? You mean to make me suffer this shameless display?"

"Get over yourself," said Waylon, the breathless quality of his voice taking out some of the anger. "I came here to fuck you. That's all."

"Why?" asked Eddie, shaking his head.

"Like you ever needed a reason before," said Waylon, flipping his body on the bed until he was on his hands and knees. He arched his back, forcing his ass up until his quivering hole was directly in Eddie's sights. A wordless growl was all Eddie could manage as he grabbed the bottle, gave his shaft a once over, and lined up.

There was no complaint when Eddie gripped Waylon's hips and pushed forward. He sunk into the soft heat of Waylon's insides, groaning. His grip tightened, leaving finger-shaped indents in Waylon's fleshy sides.

Eddie draped his body over Waylon's as he pulled out, and pushed in again. It was a smooth slide once the lube was in effect. Eddie kissed Waylon's back as he ground deeper. "Waylon, I'm so…"

"Shut up," said Waylon, hips rocking, instinctively, as he stared down at the sheets. "I don't want to hear anything, except the sounds of you fucking me."

Eddie frowned where Waylon could not see. It was hardly the homecoming he had hoped for, but he was too far gone to stop.

"You always acted like you were afraid to be rough," said Waylon, between ragged breaths.

"I never wanted to hurt you," said Eddie, rolling his hips into Waylon at the end of the statement.

"Yes you did, you _fucking_ liar," said Waylon, pausing to wet his lips, "You wanted to make me suffer? Wanted to get back at me for hurting your, precious fucking _business_? That's all you ever cared about."

"Give me a chance to explain," said Eddie, leaning down to wrap a strong arm around Waylon's waist.

"I didn't come here to hear any more bullshit from you. I just wanna fuck."

A forceful thrust from Eddie almost caused Waylon to lose his balance and fall forward onto the sheets. Waylon's fingers clutched desperately at the bedsheets.

"More," moaned Waylon.

Eddie savored the feel of pulling back, and ramming forward. Each thrust more powerful than the last. He would call Waylon's bluff. He had already left Eddie, so it did not matter if he ran away because of the pain. He could give him what he wanted. Something to make him remember.

The punishing thrusts continued, their hips meeting in a wet slap with each movement. The moans from Waylon were constant, through the onslaught. The reserved, shy noises from before were replaced with slutty, chest deep groans as Waylon writhed, and pushed back.

"Hate," whimpered Waylon, clawing at the sheets until Eddie heard a ripping noise. "I hate you."

Eddie's face twisted as he stared down at Waylon's sweaty back. He could not see his face and when he attempted to turn Waylon's chin he only jerked his head away. "Harder, fuck me harder…"

Eddie paused, adjusting his sweaty grip on Waylon's hips. He closed his eyes and attempted to picture his sweet, doe-eyed lover. Was he gone? Really gone? This man had killed him?

Eddie thrust forward, impaling Waylon. The tempo became brutally quick and hard. Waylon gasped, unable to catch is breath, and Eddie fucked him mercilessly.

"You were just a whore after all," grunted Eddie. When Waylon's arms finally gave out, he fell onto his chest. Eddie clutched his ass and continued, without pause.

"You made me this way," groaned Waylon, attempting to look back over his shoulder, though his neck seemed to struggle under weight of his own head. "You're a dick. A sadistic piece of shit. You did this to me, you… _fucking_ …"

Eddie pushed Waylon's face into the mattress as he continued to rut, cutting off his tirade. He had no interest in whatever this person had to say. He would wilt if he had to listen to another word. He only wanted Waylon—his Waylon. He missed him so much it hurt. But it was easy to pretend this person was him.

The noises after he finally removed his hand were much better. Waylon caught his breath while panting out his name, sweetly, over and over again.

"Eddie…Eddie…"

That sounded like his Waylon.

It was too much to bear. Eddie drove into Waylon's core as he filled him with a satisfied grunt. Eddie hunched over Waylon's back, feeling the way his body was shuddering, panting for breath.

"You're wrong," said Eddie, growling the word directly into Waylon's ear. "It was more than that, you know it, you always were a filthy slut, but there was more between us, you felt it too…"

Eddie wrapped a sweaty hand around Waylon's neglected cock, and began a rough jerk that would have chafed, except Waylon was already so close to the edge.

"You think you missed this?" asked Eddie, squeezing Waylon's cock for emphasis. "No, you missed me."

"God," moaned Waylon, stretching out like a cat, his body threatening to collapse flat onto the mattress. Eddie pulled Waylon's earlobe into his mouth and bit down. "You sick…bastard."

He was sick. Eddie knew. He kept himself buried inside, working Waylon's cock with one hand, and sucking a trail of bites into his shoulders. But how wrong could it really be? Waylon had started it—he had baited Eddie, and closed the trap.

"I missed you, darling…" whispered Eddie.

Waylon keened loudly, half muffled by the mattress, as he spent over Eddie's hands, and onto the bedsheets. He quivered violently before collapsing forward into his own sex puddle, causing Eddie's softening cock to slip free.

Eddie sat back on his knees, staring at Waylon's abuse body. He was sweaty, covered in finger shaped bruises and love bites, with a pink tinge to the fluids dripping down his perineum. The only sound in the room was soft panting for several heartbeats.

Eddie felt unsatisfied, despite his release. The physical was not the important part, to him. He was nervous. Nervous about what they would discuss in their warm afterglow of their shared orgasms. Perhaps the excursion was what they both needed before broaching sensitive subjects.

"I'm so sorry," said Eddie, carefully lowering himself onto his side, spooned against Waylon's body, lying face down on the bed. His hand hovered above Waylon's skin, afraid to touch him without permission.

"I'm so sorry, and I should have told you, and I would do anything to fix this. I was afraid to lose you, afraid of seeing you sad, or hurt, and I just…I never lied about…I love you more than anything…more than the shop, the guys, the dogs…"

Waylon answered with a loud snore.

"Darling?" asked Eddie, softly.

There was no response except a loud, rattling breath, from the sleeping man. Eddie sighed and got out of bed, carefully. He collected Waylon's clothes and set them neatly near the bed. He retrieved a cloth from the bathroom and attempted to clean up as much as possible with disturbing his slumber.

Eddie finally lied down facing a naked Waylon, passed out in his bed, covered with only a light sheet. The entire visit was a mystery that would have to wait for the morning to decipher. Eddie pressed the lightest kiss to Waylon's forehead, and stared at him through half closed eyes until he fell asleep.

When Eddie woke the next morning, Waylon was gone.

* * *

A/N: I'm a terrible self indulgent author and this is my favorite chapter in the whole damn fic. Thanks for leaving me reviews! You guys are so awesome, I'm glad this story turned out to be so fun, so, two chapters and an epilogue left :D Home stretch!


	18. Chapter 18: Memory Book

**Chapter 18: Memory Book**

The next morning, Eddie awoke, feeling rested and warm. Then, he remembered. He pushed out an instinctive arm, and embraced only air. His eyes flew open, and he stared at the empty spot on the bed.

Waylon's place on the sheets had grown cold. If not for the striped tear marks in the sheets, Eddie would have doubted he had been there at all. A quick glance around the room proved it was empty. Waylon was gone.

Eddie got out of bed, still naked, and looked out into the house. He called to the dogs, and found them all in the kitchen, eating fresh bowls of kibble. He glanced out the front window, and saw no motorcycles. Left with nothing but memories, once again.

He searched the house for a note—a clue. _Anything_. There were reminders of Waylon, everywhere, but nothing to help Eddie decipher why the strange meeting had occurred.

Eddie was baffled as he flopped back down on his bed, and pulled the pillow Waylon had used tight to his body. He shoved his face into the fabric and inhaled, deeply. He had an appointment at nine, but he could be a little late. He could rest there for a while, before the last traces of Waylon vanished from his sheets.

There was a full day of meetings, but Eddie had trouble concentrating. Dennis made a valiant effort, but it was difficult for him to speak with the customers. Not only because of his less than professional mannerisms, but also his inexperience with sales. Despite the non-stop appointments, only a few contracts were tentatively signed.

When Eddie was not glaring at his customers, he was attempting to compose a letter to Waylon.

Darling, Waylon,

Why did you leave I know why you left the first time, but why did you leave me last night? We have so much to talk about. I understand you need some space, but it's obvious you're missing me, as much as I'm missing you. At least give me a chance to apologize?

"Last customer," said Dennis, slapping his hand on the page where Eddie was scribbling away. He glared at Dennis for the intrusion. "Let's just get this done, I need a drink. Or four."

After work, Eddie accompanied Dennis to the Shack, against his better judgment. It was crowded, though that was normal for a Friday. Eddie had a haunted look on his face, as he stared at the checkered tablecloth.

"Something on your mind, man?" asked Frank. He wore his apron, as though he was on the clock, but he had not moved from his seat since Eddie and Dennis arrived.

"It's busy tonight, shouldn't you be assisting Pamela?" asked Eddie.

"She makes special allowances," said Frank, shrugging. "She's worried about you. You look like someone kicked your puppy."

"I have a lot on my mind," said Eddie, pushing his fingers back through his hair. It felt greasy. He had forgone his shower that morning in an effort to maintain the feeling of Waylon on his skin.

"Well, we can commiserate together, we all miss Way," said Frank, nodding.

"I saw him," said Eddie, staring hard at his full beer.

"This like a, spiritual vision kind of thing?" asked Dennis, exchanging worried look with Frank.

"Waylon came to my house, last night," said Eddie, canting his eyes down to his lap.

"You're serious?" asked Dennis, leaning onto the table to get closer to Eddie. "Why didn't you say something earlier?!"

"Oh, man, I knew he would be back!" said Frank, a huge grin on his bearded face.

"Because it wasn't important. He showed up last night, and left before I woke up."

"He stayed the night," asked Dennis. "That seems like a big deal. What'd you do?" Eddie shot a quick glare at Dennis. "You are incapable of not fucking that guy."

"He drove up, after dark. He was mad. He instigated everything," said Eddie.

"…yeah, I bet…" said Dennis.

"I'm not sure he'll be coming back," said Eddie.

"Why are you thinking that way?" asked Frank.

"Because he refused to talk to me," said Eddie, sitting back in his chair, with a miserable sigh. "He wouldn't let me apologize. He slapped me. He said he hated me."

"But wait, you said he stayed the night, and I thought that meant you two," said Frank, trailing off as he scratched his beard.

Eddie raised an eyebrow at Frank, and Dennis gave a snorting laugh.

"I'm sure your parents told you that sex happens when two people fall in love, but that's actually not a requirement of having sex, Frank," said Dennis.

Frank's face went from one of scrunched up confusion, to open mouthed astonishment. The look was directed at Eddie.

"What? Don't look at me like that," said Eddie.

"So Way showed up, and, and he…he _used_ you?" asked Frank.

"It was…more of a mutual…it doesn't matter," said Eddie, "he's gone, and likely never to return. The meeting had all the markings of a twisted goodbye-an ending to an equally twisted relationship."

"And you're okay with that?" asked Frank.

"No," said Eddie, pressing his lips into a line. "No, I'm not."

"So what are _we_ going to do about it?" asked Dennis.

* * *

Eddie was sweating. Nervous. He sat in his truck, staring at the steering wheel. He pulled at his bow tie which suddenly felt inhumanly tight. He took a deep breath before opening the truck door.

It took all of his courage not to immediately climb back into the vehicle. What was he doing? There was no guarantee the plan was going to work, and Eddie was not sure he could handle the fallout of such rejection.

He gripped a large scrapbook in his hands until he left creases on the cardboard cover. He cursed as he attempted to remove the wrinkles with his thumbs.

Dennis had made fun of his idea of creating the book, but Frank had been very supportive. That should have been his first indicator that it was a bad idea. Eddie flipped through the pages to calm his nerves.

He had made the gift with good intentions. Surely, that counted for something. Even if it did seem a little over the top in some ways. He had made an album—for their life together. An album like the one Waylon had searched for when he first arrived.

The first pages included the photoshopped documents, and pictures of Waylon frowning in the shop on the first day. All of the snapshots Dennis had gifted him were included, and lovingly labeled in Eddie's careful cursive. _First Birthday. Hot Wing Challenge. Daredevil Waylon_. Eddie stopped to smile at the original sketch he had done that would evolve into the award winning gown Waylon had worn. He had even taken the time to sign the drawing, "To Waylon, With Love."

There were several pages of cut outs from magazines and newspapers, detailing the Denver Bridal Competition and the following awards ceremony. A glossy photo where Waylon glittering in the award winning gown, beaming. And finally a short note.

 _Waylon,_

 _The excuses that brought us together were manufactured, but these memories are real, and they are ours, and I would do anything to make more with you._

 _Love always,_

 _Eddie_

Eddie slammed the book shut with an annoyed grunt. It was too much. It was too cheesy. He looked up at the building. He checked, and double-checked, the address. He had the right place.

He felt more nervous than a teenager on prom night, wearing his nice clothing and clutching his careful gift. He gripped the book as he walked into the building, and took the elevator to Waylon's floor.

Eddie's heart was racing as he walked through the halls. It was not proper to appear without giving formal notice, but Waylon had arrived at his house, unannounced. A precedent had been set.

Visions of doubt and fear crept into his mind as he approached the apartment door. He read the number: 2536. This was it. But what if Waylon was not alone? What if he was inside with a woman? With a man? It was not impossible that he had gotten back together with his fiancee, Lisa.

Eddie had know way of knowing. And it would not matter, Eddie rationalized to himself. No matter what he saw when Waylon opened that door, Eddie was going to say his piece. He was going to give Waylon his gift, insist that he consider it, and ask him to date. Formally.

Why did it feel like a wedding proposal? Eddie's throat was completely dry. It would be a miracle if he did not fall on his face the second the door opened. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. Eddie puffed out his chest and knocked loudly on the door. He waited.

And waited.

Eventually, he tried Waylon's phone number that Dennis still had in his phone from his previous attempts to contact Waylon's fiancee.

But Waylon never answered.

* * *

"My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My shoulders hurt…" grumbled Miles.

"Yeah well, my head hurts, could you stop complaining already," said Waylon.

"I have blisters, my blisters have blisters, I think I pulled a disk, or something, when I almost slipped down that slope earlier today," said Miles.

The server dropped off two more glasses of beer. The complaints finally stopped as Miles paused to drain half the glass in one long gulp. Waylon rolled his eyes.

"You're the one that volunteered to go, _insisted_ that I keep the trip, and enjoy myself, but now you're making it as unpleasant as possible…"

Waylon was interrupted when a different server approached the table with a large smile on her face. She said something in the local language, and set down a plate with a beautiful chocolate dessert. Written around the edge of the dish, in chocolate sauce, was the phrase "Happy Honeymoon" in English.

"Uh, yeah, thank you," said Waylon. Miles downed the other half of his beer.

"Just, keep these coming," said Miles, handing the empty glass to the server. She nodded politely, and walked away.

"Are they going to do this at every stop we make?" asked Miles.

"I had to pay extra to get the special 'honeymoon' treatment," said Waylon. "I'm getting my damn money's worth."

Miles grumbled as they stared out around the room. The tour was a group of people from all over the the world that had come to hike the Andes and get a view of the Torres del Paine, a range of mountains uniquely tall and jagged resembling granite shark's teeth. The views were amazing, and the trip was like a dream for Waylon. If anything could help him forget about his trying ordeal back in Colorado, it was this trip.

And yet Waylon's eyes were constantly drawn to another member on the tour. He was a large man, very tall, with wide, hulking shoulders, and black hair cropped very short. Well, Waylon definitely had a type. But when he was looking at the man, he was thinking of someone else.

That evening's dinner was in a modest lodge. The trip was designed to help adventurous travelers hike across the Los Glaciares National Park in Chilean Patagonia. Waylon should have been having the time of his life.

"Ugh, can I skip the hike tomorrow? I'll just hang out here at the lodge, it's not five stars or anything, but I saw a steam room…"

"You can go in the steam room when we get back from the trails," said Waylon. "Tomorrow's supposed to be one of the most scenic hikes of the entire trip!"

Miles gave an exaggerated groan before digging into the chocolate cake. Waylon had lost his appetite.

The tour group had spent an exhausting day hiking, and everyone seemed to have the same idea that night: drowning their troubles at the small bar of their lodge. Waylon had lost count of Miles' drinks.

"I'm going to go hit on the tour guide," said Miles.

"Please, don't," said Waylon, rolling his eyes.

"Why not?" asked Miles, looking offended.

"Because she's paid to be here, and to be nice to us, she can't politely just tell you to fuck off, so don't…"

"Yeah, right, she's been checking me out," said Miles, messy combing his hair quickly with his fingertips. "You saw the way she was all over me today?"

"She was helping you up the steep slope, because you were holding up the group…"

"She let me drink from her water bottle…" continued Miles.

"You looked ready to pass out from exhaustion…" said Waylon.

"When we got back, she told me to get a shower, and relax," said Miles. Waylon just leveled a flat stare. "She winked!"

"Go. Fine. Whatever you want," mumbled Waylon. He sat at the table, alone, staring at the half eaten cake, and his own empty beer glass. The server arrived shortly, and Waylon nodded when asked if he wanted another. A moment later, someone was at his elbow. Waylon thought the server had unnatural speed, until he turned his head.

"Hey," came a deep, rumbling voice.

"Oh, um, hi," said Waylon, feeling his face flushing. The handsome man that vaguely resembled Eddie had walked up with his own beer, and a nervous smile on his square face.

"Waylon? Right?"

"Yeah, yes, that's my name, um, you're, Mark?"

"Yeah," said Mark, tilting his glass in a small salute. "You have a good memory." The server arrived to deliver Waylon's drink, interrupting the awkward greeting. Once Waylon's drink was in hand, Mark jerked his head toward a secluded part of the bar. "Do you mind if we go somewhere quieter?"

"S-sure," said Waylon. He stood up with his beer, and searched the area. Miles was leaning against the bar, talking to the tour guide who looked positively bored. Waylon could not catch his eye. He followed Mark to the empty part of the bar, and they both took a seat at a high-top table.

"I was a little nervous to approach you, there was so much talk at the beginning of the trip about you two being on a honeymoon…"

"Oh," said Waylon, blushing. "Yeah, that was a misunderstanding. Well, I mean, no one misunderstood, it's just, the wedding didn't happen, will _never_ happen, but I didn't want to let the trip go to waste…"

"Don't blame you," said Mark, gesturing out a dark window. The outline of the Andes was visible in the distance, black against a starry sky. "This is a once in a lifetime trip."

"Agreed."

"You're the hiker, I take it?" asked Mark, trying and failing to hide a smirk. "Your friend doesn't seem like this was his first choice."

"Yeah, Miles is more of an indoor guy," said Waylon.

"So, Miles, he's your…"

"Friend," said Waylon, giving a nervous chuckle. "We're just friends."

"Nothing romantic?" asked Mark.

"No," said Waylon, blushing at the memory of their recent failed kiss. "No, nope, absolutely, just friends."

"What a relief," said Mark, glancing back toward the bar where Miles still stood. "If that's the case, then I have a question to ask you."

Waylon's hands shook slightly as he stared at Mark. He was a broad, strapping man with large muscles bulging through his long sleeved shirt. His face was handsome, and his eyes were blue, though not the right shade. He was not Eddie. Perhaps he could be a good, temporary, replacement?

But Waylon still was not sure. When he had gone to Eddie's house, he had needed an answer about his own sexuality. With all of his memories returned, and his past known, was he still able to perform with a man? Was he into men, or just Eddie? Fucking Eddie had not answered anything, only raised more questions. And caused Waylon to miss Eddie even more violently than before.

Mark leaned closer, and Waylon tensed, sitting perfectly still, heart racing. He could feel Mark's body heat when he whispered into his ear, "Do you think you could talk to your friend for me?"

"My…my friend?"

"Yeah, Miles, right?"

"Miles?"

"Yeah," said Mark, staring over toward the bar. "He's my type."

"Miles? Miles is your type?" asked Waylon.

"Absolutely, look at him, all tight ass, and long limbs," said Mark, giving a low grunt. "He keeps complaining about how sore he is from hiking, and I know he's just teasing me. I'd happily massage his entire body."

"Holy shit, okay, wow, well, Miles…is single, and unemployed, and we are definitely not dating, so good luck, I can put in a word for you," said Waylon.

"He's into guys?" asked Mark.

"He's bisexual," said Waylon, nodding. "Apparently it's not just for girls."

Waylon took a long drink from his glass as he walked away, leaving Mark behind. He almost tripped over a chair, causing himself to splash beer down the front of his jacket. Shit. Waylon started to walk toward Miles, to tell him he was going back to the room, but Mark was quick. He was already talking up an obviously tipsy Miles at the bar. Waylon sighed and returned to the room, alone.

The hotel room was warm enough that Waylon took off his jacket and sweater, lounging in a regular shirt and jeans. He stared at the cloudy mirror provided, pulling his shirt collar to the side. They were still there. Just faded.

Proof that Waylon had been with Eddie. The whole thing felt like a dream after he had driven out before sunrise. He wanted to not care about Eddie, or his feelings, but the guilt was there. If he did not want to be with Eddie, that was one thing, but to show up, and use him?

Then again, Eddie had done the same thing. Waylon had to keep reminding himself. The loving, doting husband that had kissed him, bought him gifts, and promised to do anything for him, was a fraud. The real Eddie was someone Waylon had never met—only glimpsed.

The man with the troubled past who had shed tears over his mother's old clothing being thrown away. The man who had opened up about his history of abuse at the hands of his relatives. There was no doubt in Waylon's mind that Eddie had been sincere during those moments.

As well as during the moments, alone, when he had confessed his love to Waylon.

Eddie had not told Waylon the truth—not outright. But Waylon remembered the gazebo. Eddie had played music from his favorite band. How had he even known? He had given him Miles' business card, and told him to call. Why would he do things like that, if he had only wanted to confuse and mislead Waylon?

The door to the room opened, and Miles staggered in, groaning. "No fair, running off to the room. I'm more tired than you."

"It's not a competition," muttered Waylon. "Did that guy talk to you?"

"Who, the big muscle guy? Yeah, I guess, I've been drinking all night, I need to sleep. Wait, why are you in here crying?"

"I'm not crying," said Waylon, bringing his palm up to quickly swipe at his cheeks. Well, he had not _realized_ he was crying.

"Shit," said Miles, closing the door behind him as he walked to his bed in the room. He flopped down on his stomach, fully clothed. "First, we almost miss our flight because you show up right at the buzzer, covered with hickeys."

"I was n…"

"I'm not an idiot," said Miles, snorting into the comforter. "I knew what they were, I just didn't wanna bring it up. And now you're hanging out, alone, crying in the hotel room. What is going on? Do you wanna talk?"

"You're drunk."

"How does that affect my listening abilities?" asked Miles.

Waylon sniffled, and rolled his eyes. "Just, Eddie."

"Need to put that guy out of your mind, I mean, you found a new partner easy enough…"

"Just Eddie," repeated Waylon. Miles lifted his head barely off the mattress to squint at his friend. "The hickeys, that was, um, Eddie."

"Eddie came to see you?" asked Miles.

"No," said Waylon, shaking his head. "I drove to Leadville the night before our flight. I didn't really think it through. And I don't know what I expected."

"You willingly went back to that guy? And let him mark your neck like that?" asked Miles.

"He fucked me so good."

"Sounds romantic," said Miles. "Going back to the person that kidnapped you, fed you months of lies, and abused your trust."

"I know," said Waylon, sitting down on his own bed and hanging his head. "I can't forgive something like that. How can I have a relationship with someone that would even consider doing something that cruel and petty? He's…he's disgusting."

"So give it time," said Miles, rolling over on the bed so his back was facing Waylon. "The feelings will fade, with time, and then you won't feel that attraction, anymore. You can move on with a new person—a man. You're still recovering from a traumatic head injury, you don't really need to make huge life decisions right now."

"I find myself sympathizing with him," said Waylon, sniffling again, "I mean, who doesn't have revenge fantasies? I'd like to get some revenge of my own."

"Revenge Fantasies you don't act on are one thing. Sympathizing with your abuser that's classic Stockholms," said Miles. "Eddie has serious impulse control issues, not to mention moral flexibility if he can justify kidnapping in his mind."

"But he tried to tell me," said Waylon.

"You're an adult Waylon," said Miles, pausing to yawn, loudly. "I can't stop you from talking to the guy, but I don't see what good can come. You can't trust a guy like that, no matter what happens. It's only bound to end in a shitstorm. Best to cut it while it's still a clean break."

Talking to Miles about Eddie was difficult. Miles was so strongly against Waylon having any contact with the man, and Waylon understood. He could appreciate his friend's concerns. But he did not think he could stay away from Eddie. Not forever.

The trip was fun. Watching Miles attempt to dissuade Mark's advances proved to be hours of evening entertainment, and the hikes during the day were breathtaking. It was like being teleported to another world. A fantasy realm full of sudden storms, jagged mountains, and crystal clear lakes. The crisp air helped Waylon to clear his mind.

But the trip could not last forever, and at the end of the two weeks, Miles and Waylon arrived home in Denver. Miles had brought his things to Waylon's apartment before the trip, and was officially Waylon's new roommate. They returned to the apartment in the morning on a Monday, but because they had been traveling for over twenty four hours, they were both in a rush to hit their beds.

Waylon drug his suitcase and winter gear into the apartment, and almost tripped over a stack of packages. They must have arrived while he was out of the country. The superintendent had a key, and instructions to assist with any arrivals. Waylon kicked the packages out of the way. He would deal with those after he got some sleep.

Waylon still did not have a new cell phone, but he glanced at his land line and saw the light blinking. Messages. Waylon was torn. On one hand, he was too tired to do anything about any messages, but on the other, the flashing light irritated him. He needed to listen to the messages to stop the blinking.

"See you in the morning," mumbled Miles, disappearing down the hallway into the guest room. Waylon's wedding gown had been moved into a closet for safekeeping.

Waylon hit the button and listened as a familiar voice came blaring into his apartment kitchen.

"Park. Call me. I have business to discuss. Urgent. And I'll make it worth your while."

Jeremy Blaire. Well, that call was entirely too intriguing to ignore.

* * *

A/N: You guys are so awesome with the reviews, thank you, and to the Guest who said they and their coworkers are reading this, I legit freaked out for an afternoon laughing about people sitting over the watercooler chatting about "Well, I liked when he put him up on the table in the backroom and rimmed him" "No way, It was ALL ABOUT the HATE SEX" and I just, I'm dead lol Next chapter is the EXCITING CLIMACTIC CONCLUSION! Followed by an Epilogue :) Almost over!


	19. Chapter 19: Forgive and Forget

**Chapter 19: Forgive and Forget**

"I just don't understand how this can be happening," said Eddie, adjusting the phone against his face. "We've had a great working relationship for years, you knew my mother when she was working here, and I'm paid up until the end of the month…"

"I'm sorry, Eddie, it was real sudden," said Mr. Barnes, the owner of the property where _Gluskin's Bridal_ was located.

"And there's no way you could reconsider? What was the offer? Perhaps I can do better," said Eddie, thinking about the prize money he was still waiting to receive from the Denver Bridal Competition.

"I'm afraid it's a done deal, already scheduled for signing in the morning, and paid up front—cash," said Mr. Barnes. "The new owner talked about leveling the place, and building something new. I'm getting old, Eddie, this is my retirement. It's nothing personal. I know you can find a new place for your shop, hell, a _better_ place than my rundown property…"

"I appreciate your support," mumbled Eddie. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Take care of yerself, Eddie," said Mr. Barnes. Eddie hung up the phone, already hurrying out of the shop.

"Uh, we have an appointment showing up any minute? Where do you think you're going?" asked Dennis, glancing up from his phone. He sat at the table covered with wedding magazines and fabric books that Waylon had organized before he left.

"I'll be right back," said Eddie, storming out the door, and turning his attention to the adjacent shop that shared the building. There was already a sign posted on the door. "We Are Moving!" along with a detailed description of the new address. Eddie groaned, and slapped his palm against the glass of the shop. He walked back into his own place, a dark mood twisting his features.

"Do I even want to know?" asked Dennis.

"I'm losing the shop," said Eddie.

"What? How?" asked Dennis.

"Well, I'm losing this location," said Eddie. He pulled up one of the chairs, and sat down at the table. He stared listlessly down at the books and fabric samples.

"So what? So you move locations. There's nothing that great about this spot. It's cramped and old. You can find something better."

"It'll be a hassle to relocate, and a lot of upfront costs with moving, redecorating, advertising…"

"You just won like, half a million dollars, you can afford it…" said Dennis.

"Except that check hasn't come through yet," muttered Eddie, pushing his fingers back through his hair. "I left messages last week, but still no response."

"Well, we got a few contracts over the last couple weeks, enough to make some cash…"

"Except I'm so low on funds, without that prize check, I can't even afford the fabric and materials to begin those commissions, let alone finish them. I could try to get a loan from the bank…"

"Or just get the prize money," said Dennis, turning his attention back to his phone. Eddie stood up, and walked back to the shop phone, grumbling as he looked up the contact number for the organization behind the contest.

As luck would have it, he finally managed to connect to someone who could help him with his inquiry. The woman was very kind, and professional, but Eddie still hated what she had to say.

"I see here they've been contacting you for weeks," said the woman over the line.

"I haven't gotten any notifications," said Eddie, frowning at the phone.

"They're all being emailed to a Wayde Gluskin?" said the woman.

Eddie shut his eyes, and forced a deep, soothing breath. "Could you please change that information to have the emails going to my personal email address, instead?"

"Absolutely, I'll do that right now," said the woman.

"Was that the only issue?" asked Eddie.

The woman hummed on the other end of the line. "Looks like there's an issue with a breach of contract…"

"I don't understand, what breach of contract?" asked Eddie, his hands breaking out in sweat.

"Oh, the award winning dress, you signed the contract saying that it would be given over to the organization, in the event that you won the grand prize. The organization still hasn't received the dress, therefore, the payment cannot be made. All you need to do is bring the dress down to our offices, and then we can write you a check on the spot!"

Eddie felt sick. "And…If I do not have the gown, in my possession…"

"You'll need to get it A.S.A.P," said the woman, giving a chuckle. "That's the only thing between you and half a million dollars!"

"Thank you for your time," said Eddie.

"Absolutely, thank you Mr. Gluskin, I'm a _huge_ admirer of your work," said the woman. "I simply died when your model walked out, he _really_ looked amazing. I'm definitely your fan."

"T-thank you," said Eddie, before hanging up the phone. He could hardly focus enough to register the compliments.

"What happened?" asked Dennis, brow creased.

"I can't get the check, until I bring them the wedding dress," said Eddie.

"Shit…" muttered Dennis, standing up and putting his phone away. "Well, we can get in touch with Way, just, tell him the situation…"

"You think he wants to help me? You really think, after everything that's happened, Waylon would want to help me with anything—let alone something like this?" asked Eddie.

"Why not? He's a good guy, after all…" said Dennis.

"He never replied to my calls, or my gift," said Eddie, shaking his head. "It's been weeks. He's gone."

"We could show up at his house, and take the dress by force?" said Dennis.

Eddie rolled his eyes. "That's the worst idea I've ever heard."

"What about the idea to kidnap an amnesiac, and convince him to work for free?" asked Dennis.

"Second worst idea…" said Eddie, sighing. "It's more likely that Waylon torched the dress, while burning me in effigy, than he would go out of his way to return it, and help me out. Not after everything I've done to him."

"Well, what's the answer, then?" asked Dennis. "You're getting evicted, you can't get your prize money, I've been busting my ass convincing these customers to hire you, and now you can't even afford to make the dresses you already agreed to sew?"

Eddie's face was dark as he considered his options. All he could offer Dennis was a shrug.

That evening at the Shack, the crew attempted to determine a solution to Eddie's money problems.

"What about selling off your treasures? That was bringing in some cash," said Frank.

"Waylon was in charge of that," muttered Eddie. "All of the best pieces are already sold, and the money was already spent fixing up my current location. I don't think I even have enough antiques left to fund materials."

"You just need to suck in your pride, and go to the bank for a loan," said Dennis.

"Maybe the guys could scrape together funds, how much we talking?" asked Chris.

"Well, a security deposit, and first month's rent on a new place, and then for the materials for the gowns I have agreed to, even if I only start one, we're talking about three or four…thousand dollars, total."

"You wish we had that kind of money," said Chris.

"We know you don't, otherwise you wouldn't be robbing people on the side of the highway," said Dennis, glancing up from his phone. Chris shrugged.

"I suppose begging at the bank is the only thing I can really do…" said Eddie, sighing. "I'll have to call the bank in the morning."

"Yeah, just take it easy, tonight," said Frank, waving over at the bar until he had Pamela's attention. "Eddie's thirsty!" Pamela's response was a wink, and a nod.

The guys were more than willing to show their support by matching Eddie, drink for drink.

"Hey, man, what about, like…a baked sale…"

"You mean 'bake' sale, Frank," said Dennis.

"I do?" asked Frank, scratching his beard. "Well, none of us have any cash, but there's someone who does, who has always had a bit of a thing for you, Ed…"

There was no need to name the person. Everyone at the table turned an obvious glance over to the bar, before looking quickly back down at their drinks.

"No," said Eddie, quietly.

"C'mon, Frank, that's my cousin," said Dennis. "And besides, Eddie's gay now."

"Well, technically, I believe I was…" Eddie stopped when he noticed the bleary stares of his friends, "…yeah, you can just say that."

"The bank will see reason," said Chris, nodding. "You can get a business loan, you're a good bet, what with the contest and all…"

"I had a thought, but I don't know if I should…" said Eddie.

"What is it, man?" asked Frank, leaning forward.

"Well, considering the loss of my physical location, I wondered if it might not be a wise career move to…well, to move."

"Right," said Frank, nodding quickly. "You can't stay there—you're evicted, so you have to move."

"…to Denver," said Eddie.

Dennis whistled low, and Chris snorted into his beer. Eddie narrowed his eyes at the two.

"You can't _leave Leadville,_ man, you've lived here since I've known you, since we were kids, this is where we hang out, you'd be so lonely in Denver…" said Frank, his face crestfallen.

"And choosing Denver, over _anywhere_ else in the country, has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Way lives there?" asked Dennis. "Do we even know he's still living there?"

Eddie hoped that the grimace on his face would prevent him from blushing. It did not.

"I still have a chance to talk to the new owner, Mr. Barnes mentioned he was coming down to sign the official documents, tomorrow."

"These are all matters for the morning," said Dennis, putting his phone away, and lifting up his empty beer. "Drink up, I'll drive you home."

* * *

It had been a long time since Eddie had left his truck at the Shack overnight. Eddie was not the type to overindulge in alcohol frequently—but the situation was desperate. Still, he regretted the decision as soon as Dennis drove away, and Eddie was left, staring bleary eyed, and questioning his own sanity.

There was a motorcycle parked at the side of his house. Eddie was almost certain it was real. He let out a long breath, closing his eyes.

Of course Waylon would show up when everything was falling apart. Eddie took long strides, stalking up to the house. The door was unlocked. He opened it, and looked around.

"Hey Eddie," said Waylon, sitting in the living room, with all three of the dogs frozen at attention in front of him.

"Dar…Waylon," said Eddie, slurring in his attempt to correct the mistake. He did not wish a repeat of the violence from their last meeting. "You look well."

"You look like shit," said Waylon, smirking from his perch on the couch. "Are you drunk? You look drunk. Haven't seen you drunk before."

"I'm feeling very sober now," mumbled Eddie. He stood, frozen in the entry way, afraid to approach, and unable to leave. That would be admitting some kind of fault in this situation, when Waylon was the intruder.

"I needed to ask you something," said Waylon, dusting his hands from the crumbs of dog treats. He stood up, and walked closer to Eddie, leaving whining dogs in his wake. He stopped when they were only an outstretched arm's length apart.

"Of course," said Eddie. "Anything at all."

"Did it feel good? Getting your revenge?" asked Waylon.

"No," said Eddie, without hesitation.

"But did you ever feel good about it? Surely, at the beginning…"

Eddie paused, staring down at the floor. It was still clutter free, despite Waylon's absence. "True, in the beginning, I felt satisfaction that I had gotten some petty revenge. I laughed at the things you would believe. And I forced you to work for me, for free. I believed that your memory loss would be temporary—well, more temporary than it proved to be, that is."

"When did you stop feeling good about the revenge?" asked Waylon, his face calm. Unreadable.

"Well, I felt rather guilty when I heard you crying, and I stopped finding the dresses funny very quickly. You looked…ravishing." Eddie had to clear his throat. "Sorry if that's out of line. But I tried, early on, I called Lisa…"

"Miles said Lisa mentioned someone had called, but Miles seemed to think it was Dennis…"

"Well, Dennis called as well, later. I called first, the day after your first motorcycle ride. I feared things were getting out of hand, that you were in danger of hurting yourself, and that I was in danger, as well. Because I started to…like you." Eddie hoped Waylon mistook the flush of his face as a side-effect of the alcohol.

"I called Lisa, and I told her I had information about your location, and she declined to hear it. She was…I'm so sorry, Waylon, but she was with a man. It sounded intimate. And her complete, callus disregard for you, and the fact that the man was your boss, and he hung up on me…" Eddie shook his head, staring at the floor. "After that, I only grew to…love you, more and more."

"Why didn't you ever tell me outright then, if you loved me so much?" asked Waylon. Eddie sighed and shook his head.

"I want to tell you that the reason is because I didn't want to hurt your feelings by telling you such hurtful things, and that was _part_ of the truth. But the main reason was that I, selfishly, didn't want you to leave, and I knew the truth would drive you away. Even after I felt your love was real, I was scared. I was afraid you would leave, and afraid that the truth would leave you…"

"A crippled, emotional mess? Yeah, thanks, it did," said Waylon, sneering. "But, truthfully, my life wasn't much better, before your stunt. I hated my job. I was marrying a woman that was using me as a step-ladder to something better. I would make time to go hiking, just to get away, to pretend I didn't have that life, for a while."

Eddie stared at Waylon's face as he spoke, sensing the profound sadness there. He took a step closer, and started to reach out to Waylon, before remembering himself. Eddie frowned and let his arm drop back to his side.

"I woke up with you, and you…helped me find myself. Except it wasn't me. I… _Wayde Gluskin_ was happy, and had every right to be. He had good friends, a devoted husband, tons of hobbies, and a fulfilling job, where he made a difference."

"You still have those things," said Eddie. "The guys miss you. The shop is…well, there's some difficulties, but together, with your help, We could make it right. And, darling, I still…"

Waylon's glare stopped Eddie's sentence. "It really doesn't matter how much you claim that you love me, or want me, or whatever. I could _never_ trust you again."

"You could never trust me?" asked Eddie, tilting his head. "I understand you're wary, because of the lies I told, but I hope you don't doubt my love. I…I _hated_ you, you ruined my business, you threatened me. I sank so low as to risk everything, in a petty attempt to bring you lower. And instead of bringing you down, you rose above everything."

It was Waylon's turn to blush, being on the receiving end of such an intense stare.

"You were so happy, and fulfilled, and over a few months, I went from wanting you to be humiliated, to wanting you to be happy. I've never been in a relationship with a man. Everything with you was…my first time. I love you. And I was so afraid that the you I loved was an illusion—a dream. I never expected to see you again. But, then you showed up, and…"

"Ah, yeah, sorry about that," said Waylon, giving a nervous chuckle. "That was pretty low, showing up here, then doing a fuck and run."

"Why did you do that?" asked Eddie, quietly, almost afraid to ask.

"Because I wasn't ready to have _this_ conversation. And I had to catch a plane in the morning, but I couldn't stand the thought of leaving for two whole weeks without answering the most pressing question on my mind. I was confused about, whether I liked men, and whether I really felt something for you. And when I knew for sure that I did, I needed time, to figure out what that meant."

"I'm willing to give you all the time you need," said Eddie, frowning. While it was true, he really did not want to spend another moment apart. But he had to allow Waylon his space.

"I thought about you, a lot, while I was out of the country," said Waylon, clearing his throat to hide a slight blush. "I realized, afterwards obviously, that the gazebo…"

"I wanted you to remember," said Eddie, eyes locking with Waylon's. "I wanted the chance to tell you that I loved you, despite how we met, and I wanted your forgiveness, still want it, and would do _anything_ to earn it…"

"I saw everything you said to me in such a different light. I feel stupid that I believed some of those very obvious jokes. Jackie Chan? Really?" asked Waylon.

" **That** was Dennis…" said Eddie. Waylon rolled his eyes.

"What if I'd fought that biker?!" asked Waylon. Eddie laughed at the thought of Waylon, in his yellow dress, fighting the burly biker. "Hey!" Waylon slapped lightly at Eddie's chest. "It's not funny!"

"Sorry, darling," said Eddie, forcing himself to stop laughing. "You caused me some trouble, and I thought I could get some revenge in the form of free labor, and harmless embarrassment. I believed your memory would return, you would call me an ass, and leave forever. I didn't factor in how long you'd be without memories. And I definitely didn't factor in…" Eddie's hands moved again, and he did not stop himself that time. Eddie reached for Waylon's hands, hanging at his sides. He closed his own larger hands around them and gave a gentle squeeze.

"When did you know?" asked Waylon, his voice just above a whisper.

"That I loved you?" asked Eddie. "It was a gradual realization…"

"No, when did you decide, you were going to _fuck me_ …"

"Never," said Eddie, shaking his head. "I was never going to…I didn't want to do that…I mean, I did _want_ to, but I wouldn't have. It was wrong, without you remembering. But you were very persistent, darling, and rejecting you was getting harder and harder. Especially when it felt so real. It felt real when you kissed me, and touched me, and I suppose that was the biggest lie I told, and I told it to myself. Because I told myself you wanted it, and that there was nothing wrong with giving into what we both wanted."

"It was probably wrong," Waylon conceded with a shrug. "But I did want it. I mean, I still do. It's taking a considerable amount of self control not to just, fuck you right here in the living room…"

Eddie growled and leaned in, attempting to cover Waylon's mouth with his own. His lips met Waylon's turned head.

"But I'm not doing that!" said Waylon, chuckling. "Because we need to talk. I only came to talk. How've you been, Eddie?"

"I've been," started Eddie, his face already adjusting to his expression that obscured his true feelings. Eddie shook his head and took a deep breath.

"I've been sad. Depressed, even. And I don't even know how to feel. Because on one hand, I betrayed your trust, but on another, if I hadn't done any of that, we would have never met. And I'm so glad I met you. Everything in my life was better when I had you, and now that you're gone…"

"Oh, stop, you still have your business, and your friends…"

"I should probably tell you, upfront, that I'm in danger of losing the shop," said Eddie, staring down where he still held Waylon's hands. "Someone bought the building. They're signing tomorrow, and I'll be evicted. I suppose the new owner wants to do considerable renovations to the property. I have to show up tomorrow and, I don't know, plead my case…and I can't afford a new place right away without a loan, since I can't collect my winnings because…"

"Because I have the dress," said Waylon, one side of his mouth turning up. "I saw the emails. But, you made that dress for me…"

"I know, darling," said Eddie, sighing. "And I agree. You may keep it."

"But, you'll lose out on half a million dollars? Aren't you going to beg me for the dress back?" asked Waylon, cocking an eyebrow.

"No," said Eddie, bringing one of Waylon's hands to his lips and kissing the back of his knuckles. "You deserve to keep it. Sell it. Burn it. Wear it. It's yours. I'm not asking anything else from you, except that you just, consider speaking with me. More. I'd love to visit you, and…"

"Are you asking me out?" asked Waylon.

"Precisely," said Eddie. Waylon fought a grin. "I respect that you need space, but, I want a chance to make it up to you. I'm busy with some things tomorrow, concerning the shop. But if you agree, I will rearrange my schedule to make time for us."

Waylon studied Eddie's face, frowning. "You mean that, don't you?"

"Obviously," said Eddie. "I still want you, very much, your company, your friendship, and everything else."

"I'll think about it," said Waylon. His expression was serious, but his eyes were smiling.

* * *

"Frank, what are you doing here?" asked Eddie.

"Protesting," said Frank, adjusting the large poster-board in his hands. Someone had scribbled across it, in messy handwriting, "Support Local Business NOT GREED." There was a copious amount of glitter applied to the poster, as well. Some of the glitter had transferred to Frank's beard, causing it to flash like a disco ball in the sun.

"Frank, go home," said Eddie.

"I'm here to support you, all the way," said Frank, giving a supportive pat to Eddie's shoulder. Eddie stared at the contact, already noting the silver glitter on his vest. He leveled a flat stare at Frank.

"Oh, sorry," said Frank, attempting to brush the glitter away, and causing the problem to multiply.

"Would you just," Eddie had to swat Frank's hand away to stop him from transferring even more glitter. "Listen, I just need to talk to the buyer—make them see reason. This is the final walk-through. If I can convince the buyer that my shop could be more profitable, I can offer to pay more in rent, perhaps I could keep the shop, or maybe…"

"Or we could burn it down! Yeah! No one would want to buy it if it was a smoldering wreckage!" said Frank, smiling for a moment before his smile dropped immediately. "No, no wait, maybe if we just, made it stink really bad, or bashed in a few walls?"

"You're really not helping, why would you…" said Eddie.

"Way!" said Frank, trotting away with his poster leaving Eddie mid-sentence, frowning at the empty air. Eddie's head immediately snapped around.

It was really Waylon.

Eddie watched as Frank pulled Waylon into a tight bear hug, squishing the poster between them. As they broke apart, Waylon laughed while Frank frantically tried to smooth out the new wrinkles in the poster.

"Hey Frank," said Waylon, grinning. He was wearing a red shirt that hugged his slim body, and dark jeans. He smiled when he caught Eddie staring at him.

"I can't believe you're back in town, man, we all missed you so much, I mean, Eddie missed you, but we _all_ missed you," said Frank.

"I missed you too," said Waylon, giving another half hug around Frank's shoulders, but making sure to keep the poster outside of the embrace.

"You're just in time, they're trying to sell the shop out from under Eddie today, and we came down here to tell that pompous corporate-greed, big-business to fuck off!" said Frank, beaming. He flipped his poster-board around to reveal the phrase "Fuck You Douchebag" in large black letters. And more glitter.

"Dammit, Frank," said Eddie, sighing as he rubbed his forehead. "You're really not helping."

"I think that's very thoughtful, Frank," said Waylon, grinning.

"What are you doing here, Waylon?" asked Eddie.

"Oh, I think that's obvious, man, he came to cheer you on, or maybe Way has some money, he could help us save the shop," said Frank, his words picking up speed as his excitement increased..

"Actually, I'm meeting the current owner here to sign my new contract," said Waylon. "I bought the building."

Eddie blinked, barely comprehending what Waylon had said. Frank's poster fluttered to the ground.

"Oh," said Frank, before his eyes went wide. "OH! I'm…I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was you, or I wouldn't have made that sign…"

"It's fine," said Waylon, turning to where Eddie was still staring.

"You…it's _you_? _You_ are evicting me? You went out of your way to buy the shop out from under me…and you kept my dress…but the emails were coming to you, you _knew_ , and… _you're doing this on purpose_?"

"What? You think I did this out of some petty revenge?" asked Waylon, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of asshole would want to do something like that."

Eddie's face fell.

"I thought it was a good investment," said Waylon. "I'm hoping to renovate the building into one, large shop. I have some experience now, selling wedding dresses, so I thought I would give it a try."

Eddie shook his head. "You mean to be my competition?"

"Oh, no, you know I still can't sew, I only ever agreed to lessons to lure you into sex," said Waylon.

"You two are so romantic," said Frank, beaming at the couple with his sparkling beard.

Eddie started to take a menacing step toward Frank, but Waylon reached out and took his hand. "I was hoping maybe you'd stick around. I'm willing to offer, I don't know, fifty-fifty ownership, if you make the dresses, and I deal with the customers."

Eddie pulled Waylon close, and slid his other hand to his waist. "Darling, are you saying, you want to come back?"

"I wouldn't phrase it like that, more like I am deciding to go into business with you, officially, and paid this time…I found your book. Do you really believe those things you wrote? That after all this, we can have a normal relationship?"

"Absolutely," said Eddie, his face slowly breaking into a smile as he noticed Waylon's complexion. He was blushing, and biting his lip. "Did I ever tell you how cute you look when you blush?"

"Stop," said Waylon, hiding his face behind a hand, attempting to keep his face from Frank's view. Frank seemed to sense the unspoken request, and politely turned his head. And whistled, conspicuously. "I just, I can't…stop thinking about you, and maybe if we dated, we might see where this could go…"

"I already know where it can go," said Eddie, pulling Waylon until he could lean forward, and whisper against the shell of Waylon's ear. "Despite every lie that was told, the most important parts of our relationship were, and still are, real. I love you."

Eddie pressed his cheek to Waylon's, and felt wetness. He pulled away, quickly, surprised to see Waylon was crying. He quickly pressed his thumbs to Waylon's cheeks, wiping away tears. "Shh, don't cry. How did you even do this? Did you get the contest check? How could you afford an entire building?"

"Oh, that," said Waylon, grinning as he sniffled and wiped his nose. "Jeremy Blaire called me. That system I designed was having some issues, mostly user errors. I've spent the last couple weeks working on it…"

"You got your job back?" asked Eddie, frowning. It would be difficult having a long distance relationship—but he would do anything to be with Waylon.

"Uh, no," said Waylon, grinning through his teary eyes. "I made him hire me as an independent contractor. And pay me up front-twice what he originally offered. And I refused to do it, unless Lisa was my assistant through the whole thing. Getting my coffee, running my errands…it was a very time consuming job, I needed her working around the clock." Eddie laughed out loud at the smug grin on Waylon's face. "Revenge…it is kind of nice."

"And now that you have your revenge, on your ex-fiancee, your ex-boss, and…me. Are you satisfied?"

"I don't know," said Waylon, a mischievous grin spreading on his face. "I might have a few more torments in store for you. Don't think you're getting away so easily…"

Eddie gulped. He barely noticed the two men approaching. One was tall, with hunched shoulders, and Eddie assumed he was with the bank from his drab suit. He recognized the other man, short and completely bald, as being Mr. Barnes, his long time landlord.

Eddie was lost in thought through the entire process. Waylon signed the contract, handed over the check, and then began to discuss the changes to the building. Renovations to the outside, expanding the inside into one large shop, including two offices in the back room.

"Good, even Way is here," said Dennis, storming up, carrying a large length of chain draped over his arm. "I'd give you a better greeting, but I see that I'm late."

Dennis leveled a glare at the banker and Mr. Barnes as he approached the shop door. He quickly dropped the chain and worked on securing it through the door's handle, and around his waist, before cinching the chain in place around him with a huge padlock.

The two outsiders stared at one another, and then at Eddie and Waylon.

"Hey Dennis," said Waylon, grinning.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Eddie.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" asked Dennis. "Good luck, you greedy sons of bitches, I don't even have a key for this lock! I wanna see you ugly, dickholes try to move met! Hell no, we won't go! No one's taking my boy, Eddie's, shop! Not on my watch!"

"It's me, Dennis," said Waylon, fighting to keep from laughing. "I bought it. It's my shop now. Eddie's going to work with me, here, as my partner. I'm…moving back."

Dennis' stubborn face of defiance slowly melted into one of chagrin. "Uhhh," he mumbled, looking over at the bankers. "Sorry about that. Uh, Frank, you wanna go fetch me the key?"

"I thought you didn't have a key, man…"

" _Just get over here and help me_ …"

* * *

That evening there was much celebration at the Rib Shack. Pamela kept the drinks and ribs coming.

"And you shoulda seen this guy," said Dennis, grinning over a beer. "I've never seen him more upset. He was moping like a lovesick puppy."

"Yeah, man, barely eating," said Frank, shaking his shaggy hair, causing more glitter to dislodge. "We were all worried about him."

"And no hard feelings, I hope?" asked Chris.

Waylon raised an eyebrow, and then turned to look at Eddie.

"Ah, Chris is the person that dropped you at the hospital, after your accident," said Eddie.

"And stole your credit card," said Dennis, snickering.

"I see," said Waylon, narrowing his eyes at Chris. "Then, I'm sure you don't mind paying our tab tonight?"

"What? Yeah right, you think I would…"

Eddie sat up taller until he could glare at Chris over Waylon's head. He slowly shook his head without breaking eye contact.

"I mean, of course, yes…sure thing. Glad to have you back." Chris devolved into grunting and muttering under his breath.

"This is going to be good, I'm already glad to be back," said Waylon, grinning.

"Just like old times," said Frank, nodding.

"Well, not really," said Waylon, sighing. "I'm not really that person, you know? Wayde Gluskin? That's…that's not me. You guys will have to get to know the real me."

"We look forward to it," said Dennis, holding up a beer. "And to making all new memories in the future." The entire group cheered, and the drinks continued for some time. It was late, and almost everyone was tipsy, when Eddie walked Waylon out to his truck.

"Where are you staying?"

"I stayed at the Hampton Inn, over in town. I paid for a huge amount for rooms no one used, so they comped me one night…"

"Where are you staying tonight?"

Waylon canted dark eyes up to meet Eddie's, and he gnawed enticingly at his lower lip.

"The dogs will be so happy," said Eddie, leaning in, and kissing Waylon, one hand sliding around his back while the other gently cupped his cheek.

"It feels strange, being here, and having all my memories back…everyone still treats me like I'm still Wayde Gluskin."

"They'll come around, in time. I'll come around, too. If you're willing to…forgive and forget…possibly poor wording…"

"No, that's exactly right, forgive and forget," said Waylon, kissing Eddie again. "And I'll return the gown, for the prize payment. But I want you to make me an even nicer one, in exchange."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure," said Eddie, helping Waylon the truck. To drive back to their home. With their dogs. And their new beginning.

* * *

A/N: This is the last chapter of the story, next week, at the scheduled time, I will post the epilogue which gives a glimpse into their little future together. And find out what happened to everyone after Waylon and Eddie decided to try again. Thanks to everyone that has been reading and reviewing, I will have my extensive thank yous after the final chapter! **OH! And this is late** because of Hurricane Matthew! I live on the east coast of Florida so over this last week I had to deal with no power for a day, then no internet/cable for 2, I lost some of my major edits to his chapter, so it's kinda slapped together last minute, and I'm SO BORED OF READING IT, so sorry about that! First time missing a self imposed deadline, and it took an actual force of nature to stop me haha!


	20. Chapter 20: Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Darling? Have you seen my new black belt?," asked Eddie, frowning down on the bed. He had laid out all of his belts—but none were the one he sought.

Within a minute, Waylon walked into the bedroom wearing his favorite dress, red with black piping around the edges. Eddie gifted it to Waylon for his fake birthday. His face was pale.

"I just realized something," said Waylon, frowning. "That wall, between the bedroom and the living room, is really thin. I was sitting on the couch, and I heard you as clear as day through the wall."

"Ah," said Eddie, turning his attention to the bed, to avoid showing his discomfort. "Yes. The wall is very thin. Are you really planning on wearing that?"

"Yes, I'm wearing this, what's wrong with it," asked Waylon, jutting out his hip and crossing his arms. Over the years since his memory incident, Waylon's hair had grown out longer, and some of his blond bangs fell over his eyes, obscuring his glare. He huffed, blowing some of the strands out of the way, only to have them fall back into place.

"You're going to make it awfully hard for me to concentrate on the matters at hand," said Eddie, smirking at the blush that crept onto Waylon's cheeks.

"That's the idea," said Waylon, smiling sweetly, "making you suffer."

"Minx," muttered Eddie, looking around the room, humming to himself.

"Your belt's at the bottom of the hamper," said Waylon. "You left it on your pants, and I dropped it in there."

"You're a doll," said Eddie, beaming at Waylon's still pouting face.

"That wall is really thin, though, did you know?" asked Waylon.

Eddie walked to the laundry hamper, and looked inside. Waylon was right. Eddie had been surprised to find that Waylon had a photographic memory—when he was not suffering from memory loss.

"It's thin, but what does it matter? We're moving in a few months," said Eddie.

"It matters because if you knew that it was thin, then is it possible, that when I was sleeping out here, you might have heard me…um, talking privately?"

"To who? The dogs?" asked Eddie, an awkward smile on his face. "Are you going to wear those shoes though? What about your new red flats?"

"You're really avoiding this, and it's making me very suspicious," said Waylon, raising an eyebrow. "You're right though." He canted his eyes down to his feet, and rocked back on his heels. "The red shoes would be better. I'm changing."

Eddie breathed a sigh of relief. Within a matter of minutes, Eddie was dressed with a pinstriped blue vest and pants over a powder blue shirt. A bow tie completed the ensemble.

"You look adorable," said Waylon, beaming. He changed into red flats Eddie had suggested, and added a red headband in his hair.

"That's my line," said Eddie, moving to pull Waylon into his arms for a hug. He pushed his nose into Waylon's blond hair and inhaled. He felt a knee press against his groin. The fabric of pants and skirt rubbing together enticingly. "You're shameless."

"Mmm, you're too easy Eddie," purred Waylon, pulling away just enough to smirk at Eddie's agitated expression.

"This really isn't the day to be teasing me like this," said Eddie, pushing Waylon away.

"Scared you'll have a boner in the press release photos?" asked Waylon, smirking. He took a tentative step closer, and Eddie felt a hand slide along his belt, hooking behind the waistband of his pants. "Isn't there something important you want to tell me?"

"It's _important_ that we leave right now, we're going to be late," said Eddie, retrieving Waylon's hand, and pulling him out of their bedroom. It took a few moments for Waylon to feed the dogs.

Sebastian, Biter, and Stinky lined up, and sat in their position, tongues lolling out. Their ears and eyes became alert when Waylon reached for the treats.

"Oh, you're all such good boys, and Stinky, you're a good girl…"

"She's _alright_ ," grumbled Eddie.

"She's _good_ , all my babies are good, so good! Aren't you babies?!"

"We're going to be late…"

"Fine," said Waylon, skirt swishing as he walked out the door.

"You look nervous," said Waylon, once they were in the car and driving toward the shop.

"I'm not," said Eddie, staring at the road, hands at ten and two.

"Oh, stop that, you know you can't lie to me," said Waylon, grinning. "I know all the telling signs of you lying. At least watching you lie to me for four months straight had some benefit…"

When they arrived at the shop, Dennis was already waiting in the parking lot. Waylon walked into the shop to prepare for the day's paying customers.

"They're the only ones here so far," said Dennis. He jerked his head toward the red jeep, parked out of the way.

"Miles," said Eddie, putting on a fake cheery smile. Miles Upshur walked over, accompanied by his gloomy coworker. "Good to see you."

"Sure," said Miles, scanning the parking lot. "You guys are going to have a parking situation."

"There's more parking in the back," said Eddie.

"Yeah, that's filling up too," said Miles. "Where's Waylon?"

"He's dealing with the customers today," said Eddie. "I am going to interact with the press."

"I already walked in, and checked out your dresses. They look good. As long as you're ready, my assistant has some questions, I'm going inside to find Waylon," said Miles.

"I'm not his assistant," said Trisha, pushing her red frames up on her nose. They had no lenses. She made a disgusted noise as Miles walked away.

"Tough boss?" asked Eddie.

"He's not my boss, we were hired at the same time," said Trisha, rolling her eyes. "He thinks he's the lead reporter because he's older, and has more experience, and published stories in national publications, and he owns the car."

"Uh, so, you two working together full time now?" asked Eddie.

"Well, he needed help, since his big article for for _Time_ got approved, and he's busy running all the variety stories for the _Tribune_."

"Do you like it better than the _Post_?" asked Eddie.

"Yeah," she said, with a shrug. "I guess it's alright. I just wish I wasn't the one forced to interview all the weirdos."

Eddie's eyes darted back and forth a couple times. Wait, did she mean…

"So…Mister, uh, Glue-skin, what's your inspiration for this new line of wedding dresses? Everyone's all stupid excited for them, and I don't see the appeal."

* * *

"I didn't think they would ever leave," said Waylon, groaning. "What a day. The press is good news for your new line, though."

"Yes, we'll see, even if it's not a success, the shop is still filled with customers, thanks to you of course," said Eddie.

Waylon shrugged, staring at the stack of papers he needed to file. On the corner of the desk, he had placed a familiar book. Eddie was busy putting the shop back in working order, after the press parade. Waylon flipped through the familiar pictures.

"Do you ever wish I was still Wayde?" asked Waylon.

"What?"

"Do you ever wish that, I was like I was back then, when I had no memories, and no baggage, and it was just, easy, and…"

Eddie appeared from behind some of the mannequins, and frowned as he approached Waylon's desk. He stared down at the book and sighed. Waylon had left it open on the pictures from his fake birthday party.

"Never," said Eddie, reaching for Waylon's hands. "You're the only one I want. The one who has helped me, and been by my side, worked with me, accepted me despite all my many flaws…"

"I just think, sometimes, maybe you have trouble remembering, or confuse the two, like maybe confusing important dates, or forgetting that we were never married…"

"It's been a strange situation," said Eddie, "and I admit, I do think on those times, occasionally. I don't miss them, but I remember them fondly. That's when I fell in love with you. Isn't it fine to think back on good memories?"

"Yes," said Waylon, smiling as he closed the book. On the cover, he had written, in decorative lettering, "In memoriam." A fitting tribute, to someone who was no longer around. Soon after Waylon moved in, they had begun a new album of their own memories. A fresh start.

"Let's go to the Shack," said Eddie.

"No, I'm tired, and not feeling up to it," said Waylon, sighing as he slid the book back under the counter where it always sat.

"You'll feel better once we see the guys, and eat some food," said Eddie, staring into Waylon's eyes until he had to crack a smile.

"Fine. But just for a little while. I don't want to stay out late."

* * *

The Shack was always crowded on a Saturday, but that day seemed more crowded than usual.

"I wonder if some of the visitors stayed in town, and came to the Shack," said Waylon, as they walked into the restaurant. "Pam will like that, if our business brings her more customers!"

"Indeed," said Eddie, a secret smile on his face as he held the door open for Waylon.

"SURPRISE!"

"Are you fucking kidding me," said Waylon, turning to glare at Eddie. The crowd was too busy cheering, and raising beer bottles to hear. "You knew it was my birthday?"

"Of course, darling," said Eddie, smirking.

"But you didn't anything all day!"

"That would ruin the surprise," said Eddie.

"I really thought you'd just forgotten, or maybe you still thought that _Wayde's_ birthday was my birthday…"

Waylon's pout was adorable, but the way his eyes were glinting was not. There was trouble brewing. Eddie hoped the party would make up for any irritation Waylon felt. "Come on, Pam will be sad if you don't come in, and eat."

Waylon smiled when he noticed a familiar face. "Miles!" Eddie followed Waylon to their usual table where Miles was currently seated between Chris and Frank.

"You stayed in town, for the party?" asked Waylon.

"Well, yeah, Eddie told me about it, that's why we scheduled all the press stuff for this morning, so I could be in town," said Miles.

Waylon stared over at Eddie. "You went out of your way to plan this in advance, so…so Miles would be here?"

"It'd hardly be a birthday party without your best friend," said Eddie.

"You know, I actually thought, you two didn't like each other," said Waylon. Eddie's response was a polite smile.

"Miles is…a driven man," said Eddie. It was the only compliment he could earnestly give the loud mouthed reporter. Since Waylon' return, Miles was a frequent visitor, and still pissed about the runaround he had received when searching for Waylon. Not to mention everything that followed during Waylon's absence.

"I can't believe this is the shrimp that was threatening me over the phone," said Chris, exhaling as he brought his beer up. Miles just leveled a flat stare.

Eddie looked around, until he finally spotted Dennis standing near the table, his back to the group. Eddie walked until he was directly behind Dennis.

"Yeah, it's a small town, sure, but, somebody's gotta run it," said Dennis. Eddie clapped a supportive hand on Dennis' shoulder causing him to jump slightly. "Oh, hey Ed. This is my best friend, Eddie, he's a big deal, you've probably heard of him."

"I interviewed him earlier," said Trisha, glancing up at Eddie through her empty frames.

"Everything's in order?" asked Eddie.

"You got it, bro," said Dennis. "I made sure Frank brought an actual cake this time. Pam's already got the food ready to go, should be bringing it out in a second. Drinks are free for the group, so just relax, have a beer."

It was easy to relax at the Rib Shack. The food was familiar, the beer was cold, and Waylon was laughing with the group. Pamela had hijacked the music to make sure nothing but the Dave Matthews Band played all night. More than a few customers complained.

Waylon practically glowed in his red dress. Eddie would catch himself going quiet at the table, only staring.

When Waylon would catch him staring, his eyes crinkled as he held in a smile.

Soon, it was time for the cake and singing. Eddie was relieved, when Frank brought out an actual cake box, from a bakery. He opened it, revealing a sheet cake with white and blue frosting. And a giant uneven piece missing.

"Dammit Frank," said Eddie, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What, I didn't do…Oh, wait, no, sorry, I thought I'd dreamed that," said Frank. Eddie stared down at the cake that read, 'Happy Birth.'

"Well, it'll have to do," said Eddie pushing in the candles and lighting them. The crew all sang for Waylon, as well as several drunk customers around the bar. Pam came running over from behind the bar to join in. The song reached cacophonous levels, as the crowd held out the last syllable drawn out for good measure.

"This is from me, man, I hope it fits," said Frank, sliding a large square box toward Waylon. Inside, was a white motorcycle helmet with bright red and blue stripes down the sides, and some airbrushed flames for good measure.

"Ah, it's perfect," said Waylon, laughing. "I mean, if I get tired of my black one, this is a nice, change of pace…"

"And you'll look more like a daredevil," said Frank.

"My gift," said Miles, sliding an envelope across the table. Waylon opened it, reading for several minutes before looking up at Miles.

"I thought you hated hiking?! You did nothing but complain on the trip…"

"I do hate hiking. Those are for you and Gluskin. Take him hiking for a week and let's see how he likes it," said Miles, muttering as he took a long drink. "Maybe you can meet up with my old pal, Mark."

"A trip for two to the Canadian rockies, it's a tour group that specializes in hiking trips, I've always wanted to go to Canada," said Waylon, the words bubbling out as he gripped the envelope and smiled.

"Yes, hiking, fun," said Eddie, throwing a side-eye glare at Miles. The smirk on Miles' face was obnoxious.

"I hope you like mine, bro," said Dennis, sliding a flat present toward Waylon. "I had to fight pretty hard on an online auction to get it for you."

Waylon's brows were creased as he pulled off the paper, and stared at the back of a picture frame. He turned it over, and slowly turned a long suffering glare at Dennis.

"What? It'll look great in your new office," said Dennis, grinning.

Eddie peaked over Waylon's shoulder at a framed picture of Jackie Chan. It was autographed. "To Phil, with love, Jackie Chan."

"You're a jackass," said Waylon, unable to hold back his smile any longer. "I'm totally putting it in the main area, back behind the register, where you work, so he can watch over you all day."

"Cool with me," said Dennis, grinning.

"You're ready for my gift, then?" asked Eddie, smiling at Waylon. He retrieved a large, white box with a red, silk bow that looked hauntingly familiar.

"I wonder what this could be," said Waylon, smirking as he untied the ribbon and opened the box. He stared in confusion down at a mess of tissue paper. He was about to open his mouth, when he spied a tiny box tucked away.

Eddie watched Waylon's face. Only his face. He saw the way his breathing hitched when he noticed the box, and the color draining from his cheeks. When he brought the smaller box up close to investigate, his hands shook slightly. He pressed his mouth into a line and opened the box.

And he stared for several seconds, before turning to look up at Eddie-and finding him down on one knee, instead.

"Darling, would you do me the honor, of becoming my…"

The proposal was cut short, when Frank pressed all of his weight on the flimsy table, and caused the remainder of the cake to slide to the edge. There was a tense second before it began to tip.

"I got it," cried Frank, as he dove after the cake. He managed to land on the ground at the same time as the cake, getting splattered in the process. Frank tried to stand up, but found himself staring up a woman's skirt.

"Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me, you dirty old man," said Trisha, pouring her beer on top of Frank's head.

Pandemonium followed. The mess was tremendous. Miles had to pull a livid Trisha out to the parking lot, to keep her from attempting to fight Frank for ruining her new shoes. Dennis and Chris were on crowd control, since the huge commotion had drawn the rest of the restaurant's eyes. Eddie and Waylon merely sat in the middle of the chaos. Waylon reached for Eddie's hand, and squeezed.

By the time everything was back to normal, Waylon was saying a long goodbye to Miles in the parking lot, and Eddie was shaking his head, as he stared at his friends.

"It was an accident, man," said Frank. He reeked of beer.

"I recognize that, but even so, you managed to make it worse," said Eddie.

"I didn't even get a piece of cake, and you chased off that chick," said Dennis, glowering at Frank. "I was going to get lucky."

"No, you weren't," said Waylon, walking back over.

"How do you know?" asked Dennis. "Lots of girls are attracted to guys with shaved heads. We look dangerous."

"Yeah, but that girl, is sleeping with Miles," said Waylon.

"But, earlier, she seemed to barely be able to stand working with him," said Eddie, staring at Waylon to see if he was playing some joke.

"Yeah, she's weird, that's like foreplay to them. I hope it doesn't work out," said Waylon. "Miles doesn't usually stay long in relationships."

"Not like you guys, getting married," said Frank. There was still a considerable amount of cake and icing in his beard.

"I never really got to answer," said Waylon. "I think I might withhold my answer for a little longer. Serves you right for springing this surprise party on me…"

* * *

"Stop by the shop, I have to put away those order forms from today," said Waylon.

"You're in a good enough state of mind to do filing?" asked Eddie.

"I didn't drink that much," said Waylon, grinning. "I was too busy enjoying the company. It was a nice party. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I was worried, all day," said Waylon, leaning his head against the truck window. Eddie glanced over in time to see a passing street light illuminate his face. The car drifted slightly before he tore his eyes away from the ethereal scene. "I thought, maybe, you didn't know the basic facts about me. Maybe you still had Wayde Gluskin's birthday marked on all the calendars."

"I don't consider you Wayde Gluskin, I've always known you were Waylon Park," said Eddie, pulling into the shop's parking lot.

"Is that why you always call me darling? To avoid using my fake name?" asked Waylon, grinning as he opened the door.

"No, I call you darling, because you're darling."

Waylon walked straight to the back of the shop. The office he shared with Eddie. He reached for some paperwork. He was scribbling away at some note as Eddie stared around at the renovated shop.

The walls were freshly painted, and the showroom was much larger and filled with mannequins dressed in examples of Eddie's work. There were two areas, partitioned off, where Waylon and Dennis met with customers. The register was brand new. State of the art, even.

But Eddie's favorite part was how in every nook and corner, Waylon had decorated shelves filled with tiny treasures from Eddie's hoard. The house was completely cleaned out, just in time for them to move to a larger house—together.

The backroom had doubled in size, and a large room installed, which operated as their conjoined office. There were two desks, comfortable office chairs, and another table to the side with sewing equipment. Eddie sometimes needed to work, while he performed his clerical duties.

Eddie took a seat at his desk chair as he waited. He was content to watch Waylon leaning over the table, working.

"Done," announced Waylon. He walked to where Eddie was seated, and touched his shoulder. "You know we never fully christened this new office, the way we did the last one…"

Waylon leaned over and slid his hands down Eddie's chest. Lithe fingers toyed with the buttons on his vest, and mapped out the defined muscles of his chest.

Eddie sighed into the gentle caress. "We should hurry home, I want to give you the rest of your present…"

"Ooh," said Waylon, grinning. "What if I can't wait to get home to unwrap it?"

The hand that had worked its way down Eddie's chest ventured lower. A rumbling growl reverberated in Eddie's chest as he looked at Waylon's face. His face was always one of childlike wonder when he was touching Eddie, even after years. Eddie chuckled and leaned back in his chair, legs falling apart. He patted his thigh.

Waylon sat in Eddie's lap without hesitation. A hand flew to Eddie's belt that he had helped find that morning. His fingers were quick. Eddie gave a sigh, when Waylon finally undid the zipper, and shoved a hand down the front of his pants.

"I thought you were trying to make work a 'sex free' zone," said Eddie, struggling to keep his voice level. Waylon smirked, fingers wrapping around Eddie through his underwear. He squeezed as he moved his hand up and down.

"You discussed that, because you were getting behind on your sewing," said Waylon, leaning in to place a light kiss on Eddie's jaw.

"You were tantalizing me on purpose," said Eddie, narrowing his eyes. His angry expression dissolved when fingers squirmed under his briefs.

Waylon had practiced often. He knew the exact way Eddie liked to be touched. Eddie found it impossible to sit quietly. Waylon's fingers milked out droplets of precome hethen spread around with his thumb.

Eddie let out a whimper, and Waylon's smug grin was immediate. Troublesome. But there was nothing Eddie could do in his current state. He bucked up into that grip. It was not tight enough. Waylon was giving him enough to entice, but not enough for relief.

"If you keep teasing me like that, I can't be held responsible for my actions," said Eddie, leaning in to nip at Waylon's neck. His skin was heated under Eddie's mouth, and he couldn't resist laving the area, sucking slightly before pulling back.

Waylon chuckled, his movements remaining consistent, yet slow. Drawing out long tortured exhales from Eddie. When Eddie would press up, Waylon would just _tsk_ and cease his movements until Eddie behaved.

But soon it did not matter. Waylon in his lap, stroking his cock, never failed to get Eddie off. Especially when Waylon was watching his face intently, one hand working his length while the other rubbed at Eddie's thigh.

"Tell me when you're close," said Waylon, his voice breathy and low. Eddie moaned, head dropping back. If Waylon was so determined to see him make a mess in his office, Eddie was prepared to give him what he wanted. It was his birthday, after all.

Waylon's hand moved easier with the aid of so much precome dribbling out in a stream. Eddie's eyes closed as he concentrated on Waylon. The slide of his hand, his body weight in Eddie's lap, and the familiar scent of his soap. Eddie's thighs tensed, and a broken moan escaped his lips.

"Close, I'm close," said Eddie, the familiar feeling of being at the precipice of a steep drop arrived. But before Eddie would fall over into a pit of pleasure, all stimulation vanished.

The groan that Eddie let out was anguished. It took a few moments to register that his cock was throbbing, leaking fluid without Eddie having felt any release. Eddie stared, horrified, until he caught Waylon's reaction.

"What's wrong, Eddie?" asked Waylon, standing up with a devilish smile on his face.

"Darling, what the, why?" asked Eddie, between breaths.

"Oh," said Waylon, pushing out his lower lip. "Poor thing. I'm sorry, did I ruin your orgasm?" Waylon took a careful step toward the desk, and opened the drawer that contained Eddie's personal effects. They always kept a stash of personal lubricant on hand.

"I'm starting to suspect you did this on purpose," growled Eddie. Sitting in the chair with his cock throbbed. Aching for release.

The self satisfied smirk on Waylon's face confirmed his suspicions.

"You're suggesting I am torturing you on purpose?" asked Waylon. He leaned on the edge of Eddie's work desk, and popped the cap from the lube.

"What are you getting me back for now? Is this because I didn't tell you about the party? I didn't forget your birthday," said Eddie, the words spilling out in one breath. He had to pause to collect himself. Looking desperate in front of Waylon would not help in this situation.

"You let me believe, all day, that you had forgotten," said Waylon, smirking again as he slowly lifted up the red skirt of his dress.

Eddie let out a strangled moan. "Have you been this way...all...all day?"

Waylon nodded.

Eddie growled, and leaned forward in his chair. Waylon only chuckled, and pulled the lube out of Eddie's reach.

"Down, boy! I'm sorry to leave you hurting, don't worry, I'm going to make it up to you," said Waylon. He waited until Eddie gave a frustrated huff, and sat back in his chair, before coating his fingers with lube.

Eddie bit his lip, staring intently where Waylon's hand pressed below his balls and honed in on his ass. A pearl of liquid crowned Waylon's cock. If Eddie's torment could get Waylon dripping without a single touch, maybe it was worth it.

As Waylon worked, Eddie pulled away his bow tie, and unbuttoned his shirt to let it hang open. It had grown entirely too warm.

Their years together had been spent like newlyweds, making love almost every night. It did not take long for Waylon's fingers to slide in and out with ease, working in enough lube. Once his hole was glistening, Eddie lunged forward again.

" _Shh_ , sit down," said Waylon, grinning. He wiped his hand on a piece of scrap fabric from the sewing table, then grabbed at Eddie's pants. Eddie lifted his hips to help Waylon ruck down his pants, and briefs, in one tug. He started to object when Waylon turned his back to him and pulled the skirt up around his waist.

Eddie's mind could only focus on one thing: guiding Waylon onto his cock. He ached for it. Eddie sighed in relief, when his tip brushed against Waylon's entrance. Eddie watched, and Waylon lowered himself in a controlled movement.

A low mewl escaped Waylon when his ass finally hit Eddie's lap. He rolled his hips in a lazy circle, adjusting to the fullness. Eddie reacted by tightening an arm around Waylon's waist, and the other reaching under Waylon's skirt.

"You're a dirty slut, darling," said Eddie, directly into Waylon's flushed ear. "Denying me, when you want it just as bad."

Waylon started to respond, but his words were stolen away. Eddie thrust upwards, causing Waylon to jostle on his lap.

"Careful, this isn't the most comfortable position," said Waylon, though his tone was breathy and light. "Leave the work to me."

And Eddie was happy to oblige. His fingers gripped Waylon's waist, struggling through the thick bunches of red fabric from his skirts. Waylon's ass bounced up and down on Eddie's lap, finally soothing that burning urge remaining from the earlier encounter.

Eddie pressed his face into the back of Waylon's neck, kissing the salty sweat starting to form on his skin. Everything in their relationship was in sync when they were connected. Waylon's body seemed to have adjusted to custom fit Eddie. Waylon focused on his balance, pushing his hips up and down on Eddie with tight, small movements.

It was bliss, after so much anticipation. Eddie's hand gripping Waylon grew insistent. He silently urged Waylon to speed up.

"I want you so full of my come, you're dripping all the way home," said Eddie, pressing his lips to Waylon's back.

Waylon moaned, and it was a pitiful sound. Eddie's hand around his cock caused his voice to rise several octaves. "How badly do you want to come right now?"

Eddie's response was a sharp bite to Waylon's bare shoulder. He squirmed in Eddie's lap. "I need it."

"Mmm," said Waylon, the rolling motion of his hips getting more exaggerate, his insides clenching around Eddie's cock. "I like you this way."

"You won't when we get home, and I make you pay for being a dirty whore," said Eddie.

Waylon arched his back, grinding down on Eddie's lap. It was still too slow.

Eddie was close. His arm around Waylon pulled instinctively tighter, and Eddie's thighs tensed. He took in a long breath…

And felt like it had been knocked out of him, when Waylon stood up from his perch. Eddie's cock slid free, bobbing, wet, and abandoned. Eddie's cry was even louder, but his eyes flashed dangerously.

"Oops? I slipped," said Waylon.

Eddie started to take a step forward, and nearly fell on his face. His pants were still around his thighs. The situation did nothing to qualm Eddie's rage. He hiked up his pants and grabbed Waylon's arms. He jerked Waylon's body against his own and pulled him into a hard kiss.

Waylon fought laughter as he returned the kiss. Eddie forced Waylon's mouth open, pushing his tongue inside. Eddie's kisses never failed to leave Waylon breathless.

Eddie's hand pushed over on the sewing table in the office, and grabbed one of his many measuring tapes made of durable plastic. While Waylon was distracted, Eddie turned him around, roughly. He grabbed Waylon's arms, and pulled his wrists behind his back.

"Eddie, what are you doing?" said Waylon, a tinge of fear creeping into his tone.

"You've brought this on yourself," muttered Eddie, roughly winding the measuring tape around Waylon's wrists. Waylon did not struggle, but he did attempt to crane his neck around.

"What is that? It's tight," whined Waylon. Eddie could already see where the makeshift binding were leaving marks on Waylon's skin.

"This is what you get when you test my patience," said Eddie, pushing Waylon forward by his bound wrists.

Eddie didn't bother brushing the papers aside before bending Waylon over the desk. There was a rustling of fabric, as Eddie pushed the skirts up and out of the way. He quickly dropped his own pants to his ankles. He wanted nothing between him and Waylon.

Eddie positioned his aching cock at Waylon's entrance, and pushed in with a hard, deep thrust. Waylon jerked his head up and yelped, causing some papers to flutter to the ground.

"That was the purchase order for today's contracts," said Waylon, his voice strained. The plea did nothing to stop Eddie's movements. He gripped Waylon's hip with one hand, and shoulder with the other. He pushed inside with long, steady strokes.

"Surely you knew this would happen," said Eddie, leaning down to push his nose into Waylon's sweaty hair. "You thought I would take that sitting down."

Waylon's answer was a string of incoherent moans. Eddie loved the noises Waylon made when he was close. The way his body clenched around Eddie's thrusting cock, tightening, pulling him in.

Eddie's release was imminent and, after being denied relief for so long, there was no need to hold out. He fucked into Waylon until the desk was shaking. Eddie could barely hear over his own panting, Waylon's groaning, and the sound of skin slapping together.

A growl reverberated in the office as Eddie pressed as deep as possible, holding Waylon tight. His fingers around Waylon's thighs pressed finger-shaped bruises into his skin, rather than risk Waylon attempting to pull away again. Waylon remained. Waylon sat, panting and squirming, as Eddie pumped him to overflowing.

"Untie…pl…eddie..untie…"

Eddie's ears were ringing from the power of his climax. He barely heard Waylon's broken words, and it took several moments for those words to make sense in his mind.

"Ah, sorry, darling," said Eddie, out of breath, reaching down to untangle the measuring tape around Waylon's wrists.

When they were free, Waylon's arms dropped onto the desk surface with a dull thud. Waylon looked boneless.

Eddie had to chuckle. "You brought this on yourself."

"Worth it," said Waylon.

Eddie eased out, slowly, a hand on either of Waylon's ass cheeks as he held him open, admiring how much fluid that dripped out of his small, winking hole. He then noticed the ropes of come staining the front of his office desk. "Darling, you made a mess."

"Sorry," said Waylon, attempting to push up off the desk, and failing, "I was close from the chair before, and having you that aggressive. Well, I didn't last long."

Eddie chuckled as he assisted Waylon with standing up right. Waylon held onto the desk for support, as Eddie pulled up, and adjusted his own pants

"Are you satisfied, now, that we are even again, after this disagreement?" asked Eddie, buttoning his shirt.

"Even? How are we even," said Waylon, shaking his flushed face. His fingertips were trying to push his hair back into some semblance of a style. "You kept the party a secret from me, and then you tied me up, and fucked me on a desk!"

"But, you-" Eddie just stopped himself, and shook his head. "Will you ever get tired of this game—attempting to get these petty victories over me?"

"No," said Waylon, leaning into Eddie. His cheek pressed against Eddie's chest. "I'll never be able to forgive you, for making me fall in love with you. I'm going to be there, every day of your life, just making your life difficult." Waylon chuckled against Eddie's chest.

"Every day of my life…does this mean you accept my proposal?" asked Eddie.

"I do," whispered Waylon.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone that left reviews along the way! Cadillacslim3 with your reviews, it's awesome to have someone reading along, makes it so much more fun. Neverlie19, U.s.a.g.i.n.e.k.o-c.h.a.n, UprisingHotdog, you guys all deserve a shout out. I usually don't have many readers on this site, but it makes it worth it to see a response so thank you. You guys made these last months so amazing. I'm going to keep writing for this fandom, just because it's really nice to see people that respond. I'm always sad when a story closes, because I grow so attached to them, but I'm happy to mark them complete. So thanks, I hope you enjoyed this work, I know I had a great time, and I'm a sucker for a happy ending for my OTP :) And man, sorry if this seems rushed, I was late getting to posting, and forgot it takes time to make these thank yous lol


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